


Gravedigger

by moffnat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Loss of Virginity, Queen Sansa, Queen in the North, Season/Series 05 Spoilers, Slow Burn, Spoilers for Book 3 - A Storm of Swords, Spoilers for Book 4 - A Feast for Crows, sandor clegane is a weenie hut jr, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-25
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-25 17:45:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 36,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3819307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moffnat/pseuds/moffnat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I let myself believe that the thought of you was keeping me alive. But <i>fuck,</i> Sansa. You were what killed me." Based on the Gravedigger theory. During his time on the Quiet Isles, Sandor hears of the Queen in the North and her quest for reconquering her kingdom. He is determined not to fail her again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Death of the Hound

**Author's Note:**

> **THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:**   
> 
> 
> * I wrote this piece without any plot outline or destination. I wanted it to unfold organically and steadily, in the way I think they could truly fall in love in canon.  
> 
> * This takes place around the time of Winds of Winter/Dream of Spring maybe? Idk. A partial-canon divergence.  
> 
> * R + L = J amirite  
> 
> * Minor spoilers for ASoIAF and Season 5.  
> 
> * Click [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hka-lhU-EWs) to watch a video further explaining the Gravedigger theory on which this work is based.

  


  


  


  


The Quiet Isles held Sandor Clegane in their vows of pious silence. He had fancied living speechlessly through much of his childhood, his loud mouth betraying him when perhaps wisdom and wordlessness were better answers, but he admittedly missed the curses and cries of the old life. A dark life, a dead one. The shouts of orders, the gossip at court, the chime of fresh steel and the singing of a little bird had become lullabies for a sleeping beast. This holy place stood opposite of the ritual intimidation he'd grown accustomed to. Gossip was exchanged for the whispers of river winds, orders substituted by the harsh slap of rolling waves on jutted rock. The spade had become his steel and the little bird had long since flown away. Grateful though he was, the solemn surroundings and huelessness reminded Sandor of a simple truth.

_I can’t stay here forever._

The ways of religion did not suit him. Each night as his wounds recovered, the brothers would kneel in prayer over his healing body and say nothing, only stare, and he hated it more than he hated them. At first there were no restraints at the brothers’ disposal to stop Sandor from breaking every cup he received that wasn’t filled with Dornish sour, each plate of food offered in peace, each song that wasn’t the Mother’s gentle hymn. It took weeks to quell the rage taught by a lifetime of suffering. When the initial hatred had been temporarily conquered, the Elder Brother sat down at Sandor’s side and began his ruthless questioning. He drew the tragic tale from the Hound’s heart like poison from a wound, and stitched the scars together with redemptive promise. “Even the darkest of men can find the Mother’s mercy,” he’d said. “Go forth and silence yourself once more, and begin your atonement. The Hound has died this night, yet Sandor Clegane may now begin his rest.”

 _Some rest,_ Sandor thought with a bitter frown, casting his eyes to a murky sky. Keeping his mouth shut was a tenuous task indeed. The withdrawal from alcohol had been worse, accompanied by a near constant dose of milk of the poppy to keep his physical agony at bay. When he had recovered enough to resemble some form of his Hound-less self, a part so far buried within his soul that it was anguish to unearth, he spent his days digging graves and wondering what had become of the world outside the bubble in which he lived. Burying the dead for so many months brought life into a haunting perspective. Sandor had once been a servant of death, a killer, and oftentimes he even craved death himself. But those were the Hound’s predispositions, and the Hound had died at the Crossroads. Surely there must be something better to live for. Sandor had to discover that purpose for himself.

It wasn’t much solace, but sleep brought a special sort of tranquility. In dreams there was sugared wine on the lips of a she-wolf, leaving him inebriated in compliance with his will. Her lips would grace his with the flavor of sweet moscato in the flesh, begging him to take more of her and encompass all that she was in the center of his mouth, but he would awaken before the second plunge could ever be satisfied, miserable and lonely. The four walls surrounding him did nothing to keep that demon at bay. No prayer or hymn or plea of mercy could staunch the gaping hole Sansa Stark had left behind.

One huff after the other, he sank the blade of his shovel into fresh island earth, overturning it in the adjacent pile he’d spent nearly an hour creating. Another body, another grave. The act of burying the dead had become routine in his many months of service to the monks who sheltered him. The poor sod he was burying this time had been struck dead by three arrows, caught between the blows of some battle six miles out. Sandor had to stop himself from asking what kind of fucking fool accidentally brings his wife and child into hostile territory, but he held his tongue for the sake of the Isle’s rules and the weeping young widow at his back. Sandor couldn’t stand it when women cried. Knowing his question would only hurt her further, he spared himself exposure to even more tears and continued to disguise his compassion as selfishness.

The setting sun beat hard against his back. He lifted a great hand to wipe the sweat from a forehead unseen by those who would stare. The cowl did what it could to hide the disfigurement on his face and the hood did all the rest, but the damn thing was so fucking hot he could barely stand it most times. The heat was obscured by autumn’s frigid nature, though still not enough to satisfy a laboring man. The widow wanted to give her husband a proper burial as soon as possible, and he’d obliged, knowing the sooner he allowed the dead man to rest in peace the sooner he could return to his world of wolf dreams. When the hole was dug and the words were said, Sandor trudged back to his modest living quarters, hanging uselessly over a basin of rainwater. His reflection was hooded and smothered in shadow. He could hear the weeping of the widow and child in the distance accompanied by the Elder Brother’s prayers, and it made him frown. How many more graves would he have to dig?

Sandor removed his robe and cowl, scrubbing his face clean of the grime and sweat from a long day’s work. He slid back along the wall to the floor with a grunt, his elbows resting on his knees in utter exhaustion. Calloused fingers coursed through half a head of hair, eyes closed, and not for the first time he let his thoughts wander back to a singing little bird with a knife to her throat. Of all the memories that Sandor had exorcised in his time on the Quiet Isles, the image of Sansa Stark clung to his soul, refusing to let go no matter how desperately he pried. She had melted into him like molten lava to his core. The deep hatred of his brother had been cast aside, the desire for unspeakable vengeance silenced within him. He had little pleasure in violence and no longer sought peace from the bottom of a wine glass. Sandor Clegane was very much a changed man, but one aspect of his life remained constant and present; his broken promise to a little girl. All of Sandor’s regret surrounded her memory.

 _She’s not a little girl now,_ he thought in despair. _She’s probably got curves like most women do, a great set of tits and a twat good for breeding. Married to the Imp, birthing his brats, running away from Lannister blades. I should have fucking taken her._ It haunted him still, the way she sang, the way she touched his soul and he left her to die. The Elder Brother had tried to convince him that it was love that stayed his hand, that he’d cherished the girl so much that stealing her against her will was too great a sin for him to bear. “Piss on that,” Sandor had replied. “I left her because I was weak. I still bear that damn sin and I’ll bear it ‘till I’m dead.” 

At least that much had proven true. Six months had passed since Sandor Clegane began digging graves on the Quiet Isles, and not a day went by that the Stark girl hadn’t crossed his mind, even when all past sins were gone.

Sandor was about to give up on eating and turn in for a night’s rest, when the voices of the weeping widow and the Elder Brother floated in from his open door. He hadn’t intended to eavesdrop, but it seemed impossible not to with nothing else healthy to distract him.

“He was a good man,” the woman said through her tears. “So faithful. I’m glad that we could give ‘im a proper burial, at least.”

“And we are happy we could provide it for you. Our deepest condolences. May I ask where you and your child were headed?”

“We heard that the North was becomin’ safe again,” the widow sniffled. “Under Queen Sansa’s rule. We thought we could find peace up there even though there’s war about. We didn’t think we’d run into battle. We were wrong.”

“So much fighting these days,” the Elder Brother sighed. “But at least you and your young son are unhurt. May I ask where you will go next?”

“I’m thinkin’ that we might try for Winterfell again. I hear it’s one a’the safest places to be, now that Stannis has fallen and all ‘is men are at King Jon’s aid…” The voices fell as the pair walked off into the distance, but it mattered not. Sandor had heard enough.

 _Queen Sansa?_ he thought to himself, sitting upright in his bed. Had the Imp died and Sansa married off to that cunt king’s infant brother? If so, why was she all the way north in Winterfell? Didn’t it lie in ruins? Who the fuck was King Jon? A thousand questions swarmed through his mind at such a vicious speed he couldn’t make sense of them, yet they demanded answers all the same. Frustrated, Sandor rose from his bed and redressed in robe and cowl alike. He rushed out the open door, as silent as the graves he dug.

Sandor stormed into the Elder Brother’s chambers just as the woman and her child were leaving. He did not stop to look upon them, nor apologize for his rudeness. Anger boiled in his chest and its burn was painfully familiar.

“You knew,” he barked, tearing the cloth from his face. “This whole bloody time you knew the Stark girl was alive, and you didn’t say a word.”

The Elder Brother kept his expression calm, folding his hands in his lap. “Yes. I knew.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“You still had much to learn, Sandor. You still do.”

“Did you not fucking hear me when I told you about her, monk? Do you remember what you said to me then?”

“Of course I do. I promised that I would provide you information of the Lady Sansa’s resurfacing when the time was right. I did not feel the time was right for you to leave when I first heard of her.”

“That’s not for you to decide.”

“No. I suppose it isn’t.” The monk sighed, eyeing his pupil from across the room before gesturing to a vacant chair. “If you have no intention to kill me, as I don’t believe you do, would you like to sit so I can tell you all you need to know? I don’t imagine you would like to walk blindly out into today’s world. As that poor mother and child have learned, it is impossible to do so.”

Sandor considered the proposal a moment, nostrils flared with the ire in his breath. He did not like being made a fool of, nor did he appreciate being lied to when the possibility of Sansa’s well-being was at stake. In the end he decided it best to hear the monk’s story, irritated though he was, and he slumped down in the small wooden chair to await the tale. The monk cleared his throat and began.

“Sansa Stark announced her survival to the world three months back, when she executed Petyr Baelish and the Boltons at Winterfell. She sent letters to every corner of the North. All of Stannis Baratheon’s allied Northmen flooded to her aid and his remaining soldiers went to the side of Jon Targaryen. Since then she has been crowned Queen in the North, and their final order of business after restoring the North appears to be the disembodiment of House Frey. All the land from the Twins to Moat Cailin is in chaos. I expect if our dear friend had known that, he would not have found himself embedded with three arrows while his wife was widowed and his child, fatherless.”

“I don’t care about a damn war,” Sandor spat. “I only care where she is, what she’s doing. Tell me about that—“ _and I’ll let you keep your head,_ he almost added, but those days were done.

The Elder Brother smiled. “You care more about a woman than violence. I expect you’re being sincere. Much has changed in you since you came to us, Sandor Clegane.”

“The _girl,_ ” he growled. “Before my shiny new patience runs out.”

“You want to know of Queen Sansa’s whereabouts? I don’t sit on her war councils nor is she a personal friend of mine, so I cannot say. But I do know that there must be a Stark camp in The Neck somewhere, where a portion of her army is set to fight the Freys. I would start looking there.” The monk held up a gentle hand, stopping Sandor before he stood. “May I ask what will you do when you find her?”

 _Kiss her,_ he thought instantly. _Lay my sword at her feet and beg forgiveness for leaving her behind. I’ll take her and fuck her for all the gods to see and win her damn war. I’ll take her home to Winterfell and she’ll never cry again._ The hesitation on his face was plainly observed by the Elder Brother, and Sandor could only sigh, giving the best answer he could come up with. “I’ll do whatever she asks me to.”

The monk gave a sympathetic smile. “I thought so. It seems that not everything about you has changed.” He rose from his seat, offering a hand to shake. “I will visit you in the morning and provide you with your sword and better armor, and escort you on your way.”

“Better be damn early,” Sandor replied. “I’m not wasting any more time.” Sansa had waited long enough. He said his goodnights and returned to the warmth of his bed, and when he slipped into a much-needed slumber, his wolf dreams were stronger than ever.

  


  


“You are the happiest I have ever seen you this morning.” Birds twittered happily about as the Elder Brother led Sandor along the Path of Faith, Stranger trotting not far behind. A gentle breeze sifted through the branches, moving his hair this way and that. It felt good to relive such a calming sensation. All those months in a cowl and hood, yet not once did Sandor think he would miss the wind.

“Happy? What makes you say that?”

“You are more at peace with the thought of Sansa Stark than you ever were in a monk’s service. It’s plain to see. You don’t scowl nearly as much as you used to, my friend.”

“There’s plenty to scowl about in the world.”

“But you are not thinking of those things anymore, are you?”

Sandor sighed, tightening his grip on Stranger’s reins. “What do you want me to say, that your magical healing hands suddenly turned me into a godly man? Thought you were smarter.”

“And I thought you were honest.” The Elder Brother flashed a smile to Sandor from over his shoulder, and continued along the treacherous path. “Godly man or not, you are no longer the Hound, and that is the most important thing. I am glad you decided to leave your helm on the Isles.”

“Let it rot,” Sandor spat. “I don’t want it anymore. Sick of hiding, sick of being treated like shit. I’m not that much better, but I’m human, not a dog. Maybe they’ll see that now.”

“Maybe _she’ll_ see that now. I know of whom you speak, but who said she never saw that to begin with?” The monk paused a moment in the muck, pressing his staff into the surrounding earth before rediscovering the trail and continuing. “The way you tell it, it sounds like she was repulsed by you.”

“If she had any brains about her, she should have been.”

“But she wasn’t. She sang for you, touched your face. I have read enough tales of love to know it when I hear it, no matter how obscure.”

“She was a child and I had a damn blade on her.”

“And yet you loved her enough to let her go.”

Sandor’s chest puffed with rage. “Shut your bloody mouth, monk. I didn’t ask for your—“

“If you ever intend to love her, Sandor, you cannot be afraid of emotion.” The Elder Brother turned to face him, his mouth a thin line. “Queen Sansa is quite benevolent from what I hear, but she has transformed as you have. The North is in her hands and her brother fights for the Iron Throne. She is not the same girl you remember, cowering under a king’s fist. You cannot win her heart at knifepoint.”

Sandor’s lip curled with frustration and his fist clenched, ready to smack the shit out of such a pompously pious brat, but after a moment of silence the anger dissolved. “You are one irritating fucker, you know that?”

“So you have said repeatedly.” The Elder Brother smiled, and continued on their way.

By the time the sun rested near high noon, Sandor, Stranger and the monk had reached the edge of the forest where his journey would begin. The air tasted like freedom, but it was the call of his heart that drew him from the tranquility of the Quiet Isles, nothing else. There had been no chains around his wrists or torture inflicted upon him, at least not in the physical form. How then could this be called freedom?

“You are troubled,” the monk stated.

“I’m frightened,” Sandor replied, vulnerable.

“As well you should be. You have a long road ahead of you, and only a leg and a half to walk it on.” He gestured plainly to Sandor’s wounded thigh, still sore and aching, perhaps never to fully heal. “You may carry a limp for the rest of your life.”

“Who cares,” Sandor grunted. “I can still kill my way north if I have to.”

“The Starks will not hesitate to murder you on sight, should they recognize you as Sandor Clegane. To them, you are still the Hound. A Lannister dog. I suggest you keep the robe and cowl for safety.”

“Fine,” Sandor said, “but I’m my own dog now. Or maybe not a dog at all. Who fucking knows.”

“The gods know, and will guide you justly.” The Elder Brother stepped forward, and much to Sandor’s surprise pulled him in for a loose embrace. “Go with my blessing, my friend. You have been a dear companion and I will pray for you and the Lady Sansa every day until my last.”

Sandor hadn’t the slightest idea of how to handle such a gesture of friendship. After the initial shock had subsided, he pursed his lips and gave an awkward pat to the monk’s back, hoping that would be enough. “Yes, yes. Same to you, but without the damned praying.”

The monk only laughed and released him.

  


  


Sandor had nearly forgotten how thrilling it was to fight. The pressure of a blade sinking into flesh brought satisfaction in knowing one life had ended for the sake of his. He had yet to stumble into the tides war, but bandits roamed the countryside of their own desire for which Sandor was exceedingly grateful. It allowed him to practice swinging a blade again without serious threat to his life, to better resharpen his mind and prepare for whatever battles he would face in Sansa’s service. The more men he killed, the more he began to realize that his sword was no longer a toy, but a tool for his own survival. He enjoyed death no longer. He swung his sword for the sake of Sansa Stark, and it was much sweeter than killing for the sake of killing had ever been. He managed to salvage money from the dead and practice walking on his limped leg, still not entirely healed though sturdy enough to fight on. Stranger seemed glad to be off the Isles as well. Horse and master fed on each other’s growing peace.

When Sandor came upon the first camp, his heart nearly leapt to his throat in hopes that he had fallen on Stark men, but the direwolf was mostly absent. The camp belonged to the Knights of the Vale with sigils of Tully, Stark and Targaryen allegiance mixed among the banners. _Been a long time since I’ve seen the dragons,_ he thought. Sansa must have gained the alliance of the new Lord of the Vale and freed Riverrun from Lannister occupation, with the help of her bastard brother. _How the fuck does Ned Stark’s bastard end up a Targaryen in line for the throne?_ It was all beginning to make sense, yet fall to pieces at the same time. All he knew was that the eastern knights would choke off the Neck, so the Freys could receive no support from the Lannisters and Tyrells further south. That had to have been her plan. _Smart little bird, ain’t she?_ He cracked a great smile, the first in many months, before continuing onward to redemption.

Sandor rode quickly past the Twins, trying to avoid the memory of Robb Stark’s defilement and Arya’s glistening tears. Somehow, it filled his heart with resolve. So many times he had failed the Starks it seemed, just as many as he’d been faithful to the Lannisters, yet he was entirely confident he could repay that debt to Sansa. He owed House Stark that much, even though Arya had left him for dead and stole all his silver. Sandor could hardly blame her. In a way he was proud, boastful that he had instilled that sense of accomplishment for her. _But if she’s with the wolves,_ he thought, _I’ll still smack the little shit and be happier for it._

Sandor entered a few confrontations with Frey troops along the road, but the fire ignited in his soul was too overwhelming for any assailant to conquer. For a slightly crippled man months out of practice with a blade, he still retained his craft with excellent skill. None of the opposing forces could withstand him. He fought his way north through burning towns and forests until the banners of twin towers faded into those of a roaring direwolf, greed replaced with vengeance. Off in the distance, he could see silver and white heraldry floating in the breeze like wisps of cloud. He could almost taste the wine on her lips from his dream.

What would he say when he met her again? She was a queen now, the highest of any social order with a brother apparently just as royal. He would have to hail a damn audience or convince her guard to take him to her. None of the Northmen had any reason to trust a man of House Clegane. To them he was still the Hound, as the Elder Brother had said, a loyal Lannister dog more likely to kill Sansa than ravish her. He had no means to convince them otherwise. They’d laugh to hear the tale of his retreat with silent monks, and even harder still to know he’d found love in separation from their queen. It seemed impossible to reach her now, but he would not tuck tail and run as he had the night the Blackwater burned. He was different than that man, stronger. And she had morphed as well.

Sandor had been smart enough to keep his face concealed by the same cowl and hood he’d worn on the Quiet Isles, per the monk’s suggestion, and used the disguise to approach the remnants of a battle a mile away. It had clearly been a Stark victory, torn banners of twin towers whipping through the wind like shreds of cloud surrounded by blood. Stark soldiers trekked here and there through the waste, finding any survivors to slay or draw in for questioning while Silent Sisters flooded about the field like flies. He dismounted Stranger and led the both of them through the carnage, submerging himself in the mindframe of war and admiring the art splayed out before him.

“Halt!” came a call from across the field. Two commanders on horseback approached him cautiously, the mermen of House Manderly emblazoned upon their shields. “Who are you?”

“A gravedigger,” Sandor replied. “A stranger.”

“And which side do you fight for?”

The answer was simple. “I fight for Sansa.”

The two soldiers glanced to one another, and their approval was hesitant. “Her Grace is not here. You dig graves?”

“Aye,” Sandor confirmed. “And I make bodies for them just as easy.”

“You were not in the battle.”

“I was in a battle of a different kind.”

“You speak in riddles. Talk plainly, or we will leave you behind.”

“What, you too simple-fucking-minded to solve a little puzzle?” Sandor gave a great laugh. “I wasn’t here, but I’ll bury your dead and you’ll take me back to that wolf camp of yours to see the queen.”

“The queen is at Winterfell, gravedigger, but we will take you to camp all the same. Bury the dead here. We leave at sundown.”

 _Winterfell?_ he thought with a scowl as the two soldiers trotted away. _How the fuck am I supposed to get there?_ Sandor was grateful that the wool hid his angered frown on half-burned lips, but he obliged to the commanders’ request all the same, knowing to the core that reaching Sansa was never meant to be easy. He caught the spade tossed at him from a nearby soldier and moved to tie Stranger to a tree, gripping the tool’s shaft and feeling its weight. It was certainly heavier than his shovel back on the Quiet Isles, more metal, less wood. A small sigh passed his lips as he set about his work, keeping silent as he had all those months among his brothers.

Sandor buried the spade in fresh earth, and began digging graves under his queen’s command.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "BUT NATALIE THEY DIDN'T EVEN MEET--"  
> Hush. Chapter two is coming, my friend. They have to be apart before they can be together, right? Trust me on the magical carpet ride.


	2. The Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:**   
> 
> 
> * Sansa is perfect. If you don't agree, click your butt outta here.  
> 
> * White Walkers???? Psh. What are those.  
> 
> * I merged Sansa's book and show plots, agreeing with D&D's incorporation of Jeyne Poole's plot for Sansa (TO A MILDER DEGREE). I just couldn't think of another way to get her to Winterfell besides that, so keep that in mind as you read this chapter and the rest of the work.  
> 
> * Minor spoilers for ASoIAF and Season 5.  
> 
> * Click [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kHqzFwodZqQ) to watch a video further explaining R + L = J (assuming you don't already know), as it plays a rather large role in the story.

  


  
_“Arya!” Sansa shouted indignantly, calling from a great distance behind. Her sister was always the faster runner, even then. “Arya, wait! You can‘t run so far ahead, that’s cheating!”_

_“Is not!” the younger girl protested, giggling in all her mischievous glee. Sansa hated it when she did that; it meant Arya was up to something, and when Arya was set on a task she would always see it done, which never meant anything good for Sansa. “You gotta come catch me, Lady Slowpoke! Faster, faster!”_

_“I’ll never catch up!” Sansa cried, little feet coming to a stop. “I’m not fast enough because I’m a girl, and you’re just a thing! You’re running like a boy, that’s not fair!”_

_“Like a boy?” came a deeper voice at her back. Strong hands lifted little Sansa up onto a pair of adolescent shoulders, and she clung to him for dear life, squealing and laughing all the while. “Well then, I daresay a boy can help you catch the mean old rat that burned your castle down. Shall we, my lady?”_

_Sansa puffed her chest out with childish pride, knowing that by her brother’s side she could not be defeated. “Forward, Robb! Forward! Catch that nasty rat!” The siblings shrieked and hollered in their joy, chasing each other ceaselessly throughout the castle much to the grief of their mother and father. Never once did he fail to catch Arya for her, even as she sat on his shoulders. He had been strong even then. Robb was always with her, and with her Robb had always won._

“Your Grace?”

“Y-Yes?” Sansa wiped the tear from her cheek, hardly noticing it had fallen. She glanced down at her wet fingers and sighed. “Ah. Forgive me. I was just…” She cast her eyes to the recently placed stone statue, almost identical in her brother’s likeness and sparkling in the torchlight. Her voice echoed along the corridors of the dead. “I was just thinking.”

“He was a wonderful man, Your Grace. A good man. A good king.”

“He was. And I never got to see any of it.” Sansa placed a delicate hand along the well-crafted stone, smiling at her inner memories of the brother that she held most dear. The flicker of firelight cast an orange glow across his features, as if a piece of her rested with him in death. The chiseled expression of Robb Stark stared out into the darkness of the crypt, a hardened look in his eyes while a crown of jagged iron rested on his head. The stonemason even managed to correctly scale and duplicate Grey Wind, ever loyal at her brother’s side. _I hope I will be as good of a ruler as he was._ “This is wonderful work, sir. You’ve captured him perfectly. And my father, too, well done.” She stood back to examine the both of them, side by side in the crypts of her ancestors, equally undeserving of their horrid fates. _They don’t belong here,_ she couldn’t help but think. _Father should be smiling at me, saying everything’s going to be alright. Robb should be married and his child now two years old. Mother would be here, and Bran and Rickon and Arya too. Yet here I am, the last of us._ A shaky sigh burst free from her lips, and she turned to face the stonemason again. “Thank you for this. I’ll see you’re paid double for such beautiful work.”

The man’s mouth fell open. “B-But Your Grace, I—“

“Please. You’ve brought a part of me to rest, twice the payment is the least I can do.”

“I need no payment at all,” he insisted, “for the honor was mine to craft them. But if you wish it, I will not protest.”

“Good.” Sansa smiled, a warm look that graced her beautifully despite the sorrow. “I’ll leave you to the final details, then.” She picked up her skirts and walked down aisles of Stark faces, thousands of generations who suffered as she did. None of them attracted her gaze. Upon reuniting with her knightly escort, Sansa ascended the stone steps and felt winter’s grace brush on her cheeks, blowing in from the courtyard of Winterfell. 

_Even without my family, home has never been sweeter._

Snow was beginning to fall, drifting southward in soft little fluffs of frozen ice. Sansa clutched her cloak closer about her person to protect from the growing cold. She had spent so many years south of The Neck that snow and ice made her tremble when she’d first felt it again, but since that moment it had yet to lose its magic. She’d made it a goal to practice her snow sculptures each day since her return, even when Lord Baelish would summon her elsewhere or the Boltons needed tending. She had even convinced Reek to help her with a snowman, and he had smiled so awkwardly it felt as if he hadn’t done so in years. Sansa treasured that sight and kept it close to her heart.

Plenty of joyful faces greeted the queen as she passed from one side of the courtyard to the other, and Sansa stopped for the occasional chat with a few farmers or bakers to inquire about their business. Petyr would have discouraged such things, but Sansa knew the importance of openness. She knew a majority of Winterfell’s main providers on a first name basis and continued to strive toward friendship with every one of them. The first time she asked the farmers to dine with her, all the North seemed to question her curious motive. But as time passed and her friendship was extended to all those who tended her home, each and every Northman grew to love their queen as much as they had loved their king. Even the Karstarks had returned to her. Sansa was a master of negotiation and persuasion, and it was hard for anyone to deny her, not even Karhold. Love was a much surer way to their hearts than fear. She hadn’t forgotten that, not even after all she’d been made to suffer. _But will they still love me when winter comes?_ she thought, _or does their love come at a price, like any other I have known?_

“Your Grace,” came the little voice of Lyanna Mormont, rushing to her from behind. “Your Grace!”

“Lady Lyanna,” Sansa spoke in greeting, her smile bright and healthy. Lyanna was a mere girl of ten, five years behind herself, and a bright young thing who idolized Sansa and followed her like a shadow. Her expressions were typically joyous, but she seemed anxious in the moment and Sansa knelt before her. “What’s the rush? You look exhausted.”

“I ran from the battlements, Your Grace,” Lyanna huffed in defeat. “I had to tell you, before he gets here. Phew.”

“Before who gets here?”

“King Jon,” Lyanna replied with a great smile. “The king has returned from The Gift, he’s just outside the walls with—“

“Jon’s here?” Sansa’s face brightened. All further conversation was dropped as the queen gathered her skirts and ran, the knights in her guard scrambling to chase after her.

_____The great gates of Winterfell swung open to the shouts of boisterous heralds. Sansa tried to calm herself and smooth her hair where it had been blown astray, folding her hands before her as the bustle of Winterfell came to a halt. Servants lined up in a formal manner to greet the King in the South, or so her Northern people had named him, and bowed as the dark-haired man came striding in atop an ivory steed. The three-headed dragon was stitched in scarlet upon his regal attire. Ghost left Jon’s side in an instant to scramble to Sansa’s feet, panting and begging her for attention. She giggled, breaking formation to shower the direwolf with vigorous affection._ _ _ _ _

_____“Did you keep Jon safe for me?” Sansa cooed to the giant beast, laughing as he yipped in reply. She gave him a few loving scratches behind the ear before stepping from the orderly line, leaping into her brother’s open arms. The force of her hug was so sudden that the crown of dragon heads atop his own nearly slipped and fell._ _ _ _ _

_____“Whoa, whoa!” he laughed, catching the great obsidian thing before it crashed on the stone. “Watch the crown.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Yes, Your Grace.” Sansa rolled her eyes and slipped her arm in his, ignoring anyone else who might disturb her. Her family was home. Nothing else mattered. Jon’s most trusted knights from Dorne to the Wall dismounted and began to mingle with Winterfell’s crowds, and the ceremonious reception was cut short as soon as it began. King and Queen walked together, out of sight. “How was The Gift?” Sansa inquired. “Did the Wildlings settle in nicely?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“So far,” Jon replied. “Not too many fights. I told ‘em that they’ll have to obey your laws, but most of ‘em seemed willing. The ones that chose to stay, of course. Some of ‘em went back beyond the Wall, though I don’t expect they’ll go far. Ser Alliser will have ‘is hands full.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“You’d think he would have learned by now that the Wildlings aren’t so bad an enemy.” Sansa sighed. “Too often our priorities get all messy. But I’m glad The Gift is settled, and I’m glad it was you who led them.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Tormund will report to you monthly on the state of things. I didn’t do anythin’—he’s more of a leader to them than I’ll ever be.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Regardless, I’m happy. That’s one less thing we have to worry about on our massive checklist of things to do.” Sansa chuckled and he did as well, though only seconds passed before the mood soured again, despondent. The queen stopped in her tracks and Jon did as well, turning to her with concern._ _ _ _ _

_____“Sansa? Is somethin’ wrong?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“The stonemason’s finished,” she blurted out of context. He looked confused a moment, though his eyes saddened in eventual understanding. “They’re in the crypt, both of them. Walder Frey sent Robb to us as a gesture of faith, in hopes it would grant him mercy.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Robb?” Jon furrowed his brows. “Robb’s remains are down there, too?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“What’s left of them,” she confirmed. “All bones now, but he’s there. So is Father. Lord Reed brought him up from Greywater Watch himself before returning to The Neck with the crannogmen.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“What were Father’s bones doin’ in a swamp?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“That’s as far as they got before Robb died,” Sansa informed him with a frown. “Lord Reed never got the chance to bring them to Winterfell, so he kept them safe until he could.” The siblings stood before the opening to Winterfell’s ancient crypts, and she looked down to the shadows with a moment’s worth of trepidation. She had never liked the place. It always terrified her as a child, and looking upon stone memories of her dead family only made the reality sting worse. Jon must have seen it, for he took her chin in his hand and directed her face gently toward him, meeting her with eyes that looked so much like Father’s._ _ _ _ _

_____“I want to see them,” Jon told her with tenderness. “I want to see them with you.”_ _ _ _ _

_____How could she refuse? There was no one she would rather go with than him. Sansa gave a faint smile and a nod, letting go of her brother to retrieve a torch from a nearby iron fixture. Jon reciprocated her movement and the two delved into the tombs of the dead, the line of their ancient family stretching as far back as any in Westeros. Neither Jon nor Sansa stopped to examine any of the other statues that looked upon them—save one. Lyanna Stark, crowned in blue roses, stood beside her brother in the same pose she had for decades. Jon froze where he stood. Sansa reached out to touch his shoulder, squeezing softly._ _ _ _ _

_____“I wish I’d known her,” Jon muttered under his breath._ _ _ _ _

_____“In a way, you did.” Sansa gave a sad smile. “Father always said that Arya was just like her.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“He did, didn’t he.” His jaw tightened. Sansa could tell he was fighting back tears. “I wish I’d known my father, too.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“I’ve heard he was a great man.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“So have I. But I shouldn’t worry about it too much. Ours was the greatest father I could have ever asked for. He did right by me, an’ that’s all I ever truly wanted.” He moved forward to examine Eddard Stark’s freshly forged statue, standing as tall and noble as the Father in any sept she had seen. Jon looked as though he’d been punched in the chest, his face contorted in anguish. “Gods, look at ‘im. It’s like I’m lookin’ back into ‘is eyes again, the likeness is so real.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“It’s scary.” Sansa shook her head. “It almost unnerves me. Is that bad to say?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“No. I feel it, too.” His lip trembled. “And Robb,” he spoke, moving forward to their brother’s gallant stone figure. “What a king he was. I almost abandoned the Wall to fight with ‘im, did I ever tell you that? He wanted me to be ‘is heir. I should have gone. I should have died with ‘im, Sansa.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Don’t say that.” She reached forward and squeezed his hand. “If you had died there, I’d be left alone in this world. And who would sit on the Iron Throne?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Daenerys can rule without a king. She ‘as before and she can again.” He set the torch in an empty iron hanging, resting his fist at his side. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now, does it.”_ _ _ _ _

“No. It doesn’t. But for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here.” Sansa placed her torch in the opposite hook and slipped her arm around his, laying her head on his broad shoulder. The king’s hand rested over hers and the siblings stood in memorialized silence, thinking on those they had lost to tragedy, the sacrifices they’d made to reach where they were. Eight Starks there had been, yet only two stood living. Bran and Rickon had yet to be found and Arya had been missing since Father died. _But two wolves can still make a pack,_ she thought, _and we will take what was ours with fire and blood._

_____“Speaking of Daenerys,” Sansa said with a soft tone, “have you heard anything new?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“She’s crossin’ the sea to Dorne as we speak,” Jon informed her with a gratuitous sigh. “The Martells will receive her. Once we’re done with the Freys, she an’ I will march together on King’s Landing to take care of the Lannisters for good. Oh, and Lord Tyrion sends ‘is well wishes.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“I’m sure he does. I’ll send him a letter once he’s landed.” Tyrion had always been good to her. She was proud to remain his friend. “Are you sure you don’t want any of the Northern forces to help you? I would be happy to send some of them southward with you. You’re a Stark as much as a Targaryen. You need the wolves to run with you.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“I have Ghost,” he chuckled. “Besides, the North has bled enough. I’ll only take volunteers.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“If you ask for volunteers, the entire North will go to help their kin take the throne. You know they would.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“They have their own queen to protect.” He squeezed her hand. “Besides, I wouldn’t dare leave you unprotected. You’ve no husband, no heir. If someone wanted to strike at House Stark, now would be the perfect time. There’s only one target left.”_ _ _ _ _

“I’ve no doubt I’ll be kept safe, but I’ll respect your wishes. I _will_ allow volunteers though. You can’t stop me from that much.”

_____“Fine, fine,” Jon chuckled. “But first thing’s first.” From his pocket he retrieved a note, handing it to her with a grin. “Open it.”_ _ _ _ _

_____Sansa did not hesitate. She peeled open the parchment and feasted her eyes upon the words, written in the Greatjon’s hand._ _ _ _ _

_The time has come to sack some Twins._ Sansa beamed at the humor, but there was still a part of the message that made little sense. “What does this mean, ‘gravedigger’?”

_____“Oh. Some sort of warrior, he’s been takin’ down Freys left and right. Everyone calls ‘im ‘Gravedigger’ because he spends hours and hours diggin’ graves after every fight, sayin’ nothin’ to anybody. No one knows ‘is name. They say he’s massive if a bit crippled, and he killed twenty men on ‘is own in the last battle.”_ _ _ _ _

“ _Twenty_ men?” Sansa replied in shock. “And he’s massive and mysterious?” _That sounds like someone I knew from a lifetime ago._ She gave a sad little smile, and Jon turned to look at her.

_____“Don’t lose heart, Sansa.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Please, Jon. Don’t.” Sansa sighed. “I need to accept that he’s dead.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“For your sake, I hope he isn’t.” Jon pressed a kiss to Sansa’s temple, taking her hands in his. She couldn’t resist a smile when he looked at her so eagerly. “Come on. You need to get some rest. We leave at dawn.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“It’s time to sack some Twins?” she chuckled._ _ _ _ _

_____“Aye. It’s time.”_ _ _ _ _

_______ _ _ _

The passage south was far from easy. The Kingsroad was swiftly traversed until the royal party reached Moat Cailin, and all fell to disorderly chaos. War had scarred the lands of The Neck with fire and savagery and all sorts of carnage in between. They passed Stark men and Frey men, all dead in heaps of burning corpses. Occasionally they would discover four or five Frey soldiers hanging from the branch of a tree, necks snapped by ropes of twine, looks of horror frozen on their gaunt faces. It tore at Sansa’s heart to see her father’s lands so ravaged, but this was the price they must pay for freedom and unity. That was the wisdom of her council, at least. Still she wished there had been a better way, an easier one, a path they could all explore in peace that demanded no blood and dictated no harm. _But that path does not exist. It stopped existing when they murdered my family, and I will not be soft in their punishment._ Her eyes lifted to a shrouded sky, begging the gods for the gift of rain. _Let it wash this place away. Give it life so it might grow anew, that joy might sprout from sorrow._ Jon, ever in-tune with her emotions, reached out across the space between their horses and took her hand. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Sansa lied. “I just want to get this over with. Winterfell is where I belong.”

“You’ll be back there soon. You didn’t have to come, you know.”

“I know.” Sansa’s lips pursed. “I want to see Walder Frey. I want him to look me in the eyes and tell me why before I kill him. I want to see the shame in his eyes, to hear him beg for mercy. I want that, I need it.” She looked over to her Targaryen brother. “Will you let me?”

“Can I stop you?” he replied, though his lips wore a frown.

“No. I don’t think you can.”

“Then there’s your answer.” Jon withdrew his hand and continued onward, leaving her behind.

The camp she rested in stood two or three miles from the Twins. Jon didn’t want her too close to the fighting, but not too far either, so she might be easier informed when the battle was won. House Frey stood no chance against the allied North and South barraging in around them. Sansa didn’t expect the fight to last long, but she would not be a queen without mercy. A single night was what they were given, one night to ride forth with a white flag and surrender the castle to her uncle Edmure. She knew Walder Frey would not accept, but if nothing else it gave her time to sort through her thoughts, to prepare for what must be done. When she dismounted her horse and was shown to her tent, Sansa and Jon said their goodnights and he left her alone with anxiety.

Sansa paced the floor of her tent, deep in nervous thought. _I wish the Hound were here. He would tell me how to live after I’ve killed a man._ From what she recalled, the Hound actually enjoyed killing and would probably offer some sarcastic remark about how she was finally getting a taste for blood, as wolves often did. _Be happy, wolf girl. Killing is sweeter than when your husband grunts his seed in you or when you drink so much, the world spins._ But if he still lived, maybe he was a changed man as she had become a changed woman. Sansa’s tormenting metamorphosis shifted all she’d known about the world and flipped it on its head, spitting her out the other side with blood on her hands and thousands calling her “queen.” If Sandor Clegane’s journey had been any more tumultuous than hers, perhaps he was now the king of Pentos or a prostitute riding an elephant in Myr. Sansa openly giggled at the thought.

She dressed down for the night to distract herself, slipping out of violet skirts and into a nightdress of a much more comfortable make. Silken robes the color of periwinkle slid over her pale skin as if there was nothing there at all. Sansa brushed out her hair and hummed a little song, one she remembered from a night when fire filled the sky. She pulled back the blankets on the bed set for her and leaned to blow out the candle, content to rest at last, but not before she was interrupted by the peculiar noise of shifting earth in the distance.

_Someone is digging. Why at this hour?_ She lay there for a few minutes in hope that whoever was bothering her might stop, but as the plunge of metal into soil continued over and over, Sansa knew it must be dealt with before sleep could carry her away. She left the warmth of her bed and slid her feet into warm slippers, taking the glass lantern in her hand and nursing the candle’s flame to greater life. She pulled open the tent flaps and stepped out into the cold autumn air, huddling close as she tried to find the source of the sound.

A moderate distance behind her tent, a massive man with a crippled leg struggled to dig a grave. Each shove of his spade into the earth warranted a growl from his lips, hidden behind a wool cowl and hood. She could see nothing of his face, but his hands were far beyond average size and he clearly carried the strength to match it. She stood and watched him for perhaps a moment too long, before opening her mouth to speak.

“Sir, do you know what time it is?”

“Piss off you little cunt, can’t you see I’m trying to—“ The man glanced up to her in preparation for a shout, but froze dead in his tracks. He nearly stumbled as he looked at her and she could barely see his eyes as they drank her in, so covered in shadow that she couldn’t discern their hue. They stood in silence for a few moments before he struggled into a bow, groaning as he did so. “Your Grace.”

“That was quite the language,” Sansa stated with a look of disapproval. “Do you know what time it is, sir?”

“Aye,” he replied, returning to his grueling work at a slightly slower pace. “Time for queens to be asleep and gravediggers to dig graves.”

Sansa blinked, affronted. “You will be too tired for the battle tomorrow if you continue like this.”

“Yeah? Fine by me. Freys won’t last long anyway. Your royal brother doesn’t need me to fight.”

“I need you to fight.” Sansa frowned. “You’re the Gravedigger, aren’t you? You killed twenty men near Greywater Watch. I've heard that you came out of nowhere like a gift from the gods. The Greatjon speaks of you highly.”

He remained silent. She furrowed her brows, irritated. “Sir, I need you to fight. A man of your skill shouldn’t be digging graves while less skilled men are sent off to die.”

“That’s the way of the world, isn’t it?” His words were harsh and raspy. “Send the little brats forward so beasts like me can live. I got hurt last time, Your Grace. Not much use to a wolf queen if I can’t walk for shite.”

“You’re not much use to anyone if you wear yourself out burying the dead.” Sansa took a few steps closer, yearning to examine him. “Will you look at me, sir?”

He huffed, frustrated. She was not oblivious to the steps he took away from her, so subtle it was doubtless that he intended her to miss them. He buried the spade in the depths of the soil and turned to her, brushing his hands free of dirt. “What do you want?”

“I am your _queen,_ ” she reminded him.

“Yes, you are. You always have been.”

_Then why speak to me so harshly?_ she thought, but the words stuck in her throat. She hadn’t come to spark an argument with a soldier, only to ask him to rest. “Then please, sir. Return to your tent. You can dig more on the morrow, after the fighting is done.”

“Then I’ll have more of the fuckers to bury.”

“And more strength to do so.” She stepped forward again. “Please, will you put the spade down and rest?”

After a few hesitant moments, he did as she commanded, though Sansa swore she heard deep laughter burst forth from his frame. “Aye, a true queen indeed. There’s your damned spade. Good night, _Your Grace._ ” He gave her a mocking bow and seemed to have trouble speaking, his voice a low tremble, and left before she could think to call him back.

Before she fell asleep that night, Sansa realized too late that the tremble in his voice may have been made of tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we have it! I know I said weekly updates, but I'm so impatient to get people's reactions to this work that I'm speeding things up a bit. Remember that your comments keep me going, and your feedback helps me become a stronger writer!  
> HUGE shoutout to [subvertcliche](http://subvertcliche.tumblr.com) because she's the best sister ever, and helped me with characterization for this work. She's also beta'd all the chapters I have written so far. Go check her out! She's a doll.  
> Thank you SO MUCH for reading! All the positivity I've received is remarkable so far and really helps me continue. Have a good day!


	3. Valyrian Steel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:**   
> 
> 
> * There's violence in this chapter. If you're sensitive to that kind of thing, read with caution!  
> 
> * Minor spoilers for ASoIAF and Season 5.  
> 

  


  


Never in Sandor’s life had he seen a woman so beautiful. She came to him in the night like a goddess taken form, all curves and feminine grace that men like him should never look upon. All that he learned on the Quiet Isles was stripped clean. Sansa always had a way of accomplishing that, of piercing him ceaselessly to the core, to the point where he would rather shove her away than let her see him for what he truly was. Not for the first time, Sansa haunted him as he tried to sleep and he woke the next morning absent of a wolf dream, miserable and desperate for wine. He groaned and forced himself up from the uncomfortable cot, rubbing his face free of endless exhaustion.

“Places!” shouted a commander from outside his tent. Sandor cringed at the invasive sound. “Places, places! Lord Walder means to give us a fight, and we’ll burn his godsforsaken towers to the ground!”

A chorus of shouts cheered in support. Sandor had nearly forgotten about the damn battle. He struggled to his feet and took a moment to massage his aching thigh, hoping it wouldn’t stiffen up in the midst of war. Sandor dressed himself in the armor provided and gave his sword a few practice swings. He made sure to don cowl and helm as well, though they were not nearly as comfortable as his Hound’s helm had been. _The Hound may be dead,_ he thought, _but I sure as fuck won’t be after today._ Sandor clipped his sword at his back and made sure the belted sash would stay in place before leaving his personal tent shortly after, disguised and prepared for what lie ahead. 

The smell of firesmoke was aloft in the air. Soldiers swarmed to their destinations like bees in a hectic hive, all under their queen’s noble command. Each man he passed spoke of the honor of fighting for House Stark’s revenge, and at least ten others pledged to drop the head of Walder Frey at the queen’s feet to win her virgin heart. Did none of them know her character as he did? Sansa was much different than the girl he remembered; stronger somehow, more fearless. But there was still compassion in her gentle soul, a sweetness that Sandor loved no matter how much he fought against it. He would meet the Freys on the field of battle with a much greater confidence, knowing that such a precious part of the little bird still remained intact.

Stranger had to be kept away from the other horses due to his violent and temperamental nature, though he seemed fairly docile as of late and even allowed others to come near him without biting any ears. Sandor approached the stallion with immense fondness, stroking his mane and looking deep into the beast’s lacquer eyes. “Losin’ your balls, Stranger?” he asked with a low chuckle. The horse snorted and nuzzled his master. “Enough, enough.” Sandor pushed his snout away, smiling. “S’alright. Maybe I am too.” He gave the stallion’s coat a few light pats before taking the reins and untying him. “Be good, ride hard, and there’ll be a treat for you at the end of this shithole.” Stranger brayed and dug a hoof into the ground, which Sandor took as approval.

“Gravedigger!” came a sudden call from further down the hill. Sandor turned, groaning at the sight of an unknown Stark soldier making his way towards him. He said nothing in reply, a grimace hidden under his mask as he waited for the man’s news. “The queen wants to see you before you leave. She said it was urgent and asks that you come at once.”

 _Fuck._ Sandor grunted, annoyed as he yanked Stranger’s reins to pull him forward. He gave no response to the soldier as he passed him, making his crippled way toward where Sansa’s tent had been the night before, so inconveniently placed near his field of nameless graves. Stranger made several angry sounds as Sandor pulled him further into the camp, but the horse calmed when his master came to a sudden stop at the feet of the Northern queen, a hand at his side, starstruck.

He almost wished he had stayed on the Quiet Isles.

Sansa looked more regal than he’d ever seen her, curled tumbles of dark fire pouring over her shoulders and back, blowing softly in the autumn wind. A crown of diamonds and silver adorned her head and her gown was made of grey and white silks, intricate beading stitched to make the shapes of prancing direwolves around the bodice and sleeves. So taken by the sight of her, Sandor nearly forgot himself. His memory served him better and he gave an awkward half-bow in her presence.

“I see you got some rest,” Sansa said with a smile.

“You asked me to,” he replied.

The wolf queen’s beam seemed to brighten, the knife of yearning in his stomach twisting violently in the flesh. “I wanted to ask you something, Gravedigger. I thought long and hard about it last night after our rather impromptu conversation.” She lifted her skirts and took a few steps toward him, and he took one step back. Her smile turned sour. “Won’t you look at me, sir?”

“Is that what you wanted to ask? That’s piss poor.”

“Bite your tongue,” warned one of her knights, but Sansa held out a hand to dissuade her. “It’s alright, Brienne. He’s done me no harm.”

“You have a woman as a knight?” Sandor asked with a scoff.

“Is it so very bad? You have a woman as your ruler.”

“Aye,” he replied with an unseen grin. _The she-wolf found her bite._

“Will you let me ask my question or not? I can’t make you look at me.”

“No, you can’t.” _But you want me to, so I’d better._ Sandor kept his distance and turned his murky gaze to her, though not directly in the eyes. Those rivers were still too dangerous to cross. He would much rather look at her lips and cheeks, to see how they had grown in elegance as she aged, less like a child and more like a young woman. “What do you want?”

Sansa drew in a breath. “I want you to accompany me when I sentence Walder Frey.” 

“Me?” Sandor pointed a finger at his own chest and laughed outright. “What do you want me to do, dig his fucking grave?”

“I warned you,” spoke the lady-knight as she gripped the hilt of her sword, though Sansa stopped her yet again. “No,” spoke the queen. “Not to dig his grave. Just…to be there. Please.”

The knights in her company seemed just as confused as he was, though on a deeper level he understood. _She intends to kill the bastard herself._ He knew that look in a person’s eye, even hers. He’d seen it on the battlements in King’s Landing when she’d nearly pushed Joffrey to his death. Sandor gave a stiff nod of his head, knowing it would be a decision he’d soon regret. “Alright.”

“Thank you. I hope you know how much this means to me. I’ll look for you when the time comes.” Sansa turned and left him, her knights eyeing him with utter suspicion, but he couldn’t give a single shit less. 

_She wants me to be there._ That, by itself, was all that truly mattered.

  


  


The battle was as tedious and nettlesome as Sandor knew it would be. The soldiers of House Frey had less than half the men of Stark and Targaryen combined, and less than half the valor to match. It was a grueling fight to be sure, but by no means a long one. Day had turned to sundown when the banners of twin towers were burned and replaced by those of a roaring direwolf, and all the soldiers around him cried out in their united victory. The Silent Sisters returned to the field to conduct their grim affairs while the sunset shone red with blood and fire. In the distance, the queen trudged toward the fortress through the carnage. _I wonder what the little bird thinks of battle up close._

Sandor allowed himself a small break before he returned to the queen’s side. He sat atop an empty wagon and drank a full skin of Dornish sour, reveling in the taste perhaps a bit too much. Getting drunk would only further Sansa’s suspicion of him, not that he’d been doing much of a good job already. As far as he was concerned, were the cowl and hood truly necessary? All they did was spare others the sight of his disfigurement, yet just because Sansa knew him didn’t mean her men would treat him as fairly. _I have to be more careful,_ he decided then. _I'll tell her the truth when the time is right, and not a drunken fucking second sooner._ He turned down the offer of a refill and handed the empty skin back to the nearest man, forcing his way through the parties toward where the execution would begin. On a wall of stone, someone had written “THE NORTH REMEMBERS” in blood.

Frigid whipping winds blew through the center courtyard where Sansa had taken her place. She stood with her knights and council and kingly brother at her side, with faces he did not recognize nor any who would recognize him. At the sight of Sandor’s limping frame and bloodied sword, Sansa only smiled and gestured for him to come closer. He obliged.

“You fought bravely,” Sansa spoke with a cracked voice.

Sandor only nodded. He sheathed his blade and stiffened. “Why do you want me here? I’m not an executioner.”

“I want you here for comfort.” Sansa seemed shameless in that confession, the beauty of her face turned dark with sorrow. “You…remind me of someone whose memory gives me courage.”

 _Oh, little bird._ He would have fallen to the stone and wept had her words not given him as much strength as they took away. Sandor struggled to clear the burn from his throat. “Fine, then.” The queen gestured to a spot by her side and he took it willingly, hands folded behind his back, begging whatever gods would listen to make her his at last.

Shortly after, the execution began.

Ser Raymund, Lothar and Walder Frey were dragged mercilessly through a narrow passage of shouting soldiers. The Stark men cast heinous insults and threw stones, kicked and beat and humiliated the three prisoners brought forth to Sansa’s feet. She drew in a deep breath and Sandor watched her all the while, examining how calm she seemed to be, how focused. _She looks like her damn father,_ he thought with a frown. _I told her he was a killer. Should’ve bit my fucking tongue._

When the guilty triad of Freys was lined up before the queen, she strode patiently forward to meet their beaten faces, their hands tied back with rope. “Face my men and kneel,” she ordered, and they did so. Continued shouts of slander and abuse shot forth from the Northern crowd. The queen held up a hand to silence them, stepping in front of the first prisoner with an eerie, grim grace. Sansa had all the power now.

“You slit my mother’s throat, Ser Raymund.”

The knight huffed. “Everything I did, I did for House Frey.”

“Do you regret it, then?”

“Yes and no, Your Grace. I only regret that it led me here.”

“Then you are no true knight.” Sansa strode behind him and unsheathed the Valyrian steel dagger in her hand. She gripped the dragonbone hilt and pointed the blade to the ground, her hands rested calmly against her abdomen. The wind whipped violently at her gown and silken hair, and thunder growled in the distance. “I, Sansa of House Stark, eldest surviving child of Ned and Catelyn Stark, Daughter of Winterfell and Queen in the North, hereby sentence you to die.” Her army cheered before her and Sandor thought he might vomit. Even the dragon king shifted uncomfortably. “Would you speak a final word?”

“No,” Ser Raymund sighed. “Just get it over with.”

Sansa did as he asked. She stood directly behind the Frey knight, blade in hand, before grabbing his dark hair and pulling his head back in a fluid motion. She dragged the blade across his exposed throat and blood spilled down the front of his torso like a waterfall. His body fell limp and lifeless to the ground.

 _What the fuck is she doing?_ Sandor clenched his eyes shut, desperate to push away the thought of his little bird killing men regardless of how badly they needed to be slain. _Why doesn’t she let me do it? I’m more than enough brute to take the heads off these flea-bitten bastards. She doesn’t have to do it herself._ Sansa wore the disguise of confidence just as he wore one of indifference, but scarred souls such as theirs could see past the folly. It was as if her body was made of glass and he could see her heart’s struggle, made harder by the blood on her hands.

Lame Lothar Frey spat at Sansa’s feet when she stood before him. “I’ll not be killed by a maid of fifteen, and a wolf cunt nonetheless. Your mother begged for mercy as Lord Bolton stabbed that faithless shit of a king. The King Who Lost the North, we all called him.”

The queen would not be fazed. “I, Sansa of House Stark, eldest surviving child of Ned and Catelyn Stark, Daughter of Winterfell and Queen in the North, hereby sentence you to die.”

“Be done with it then!” came his shout. “Curse you all, House Frey will not die this day!”

She gave him no further words. Sansa stood behind him and granted the same Valyrian steel kiss, and his scarlet-stained body fell forward to the ground. Shouts of sheer triumph and approval erupted from the onlooking soldiers. Sandor had to stop himself from providing a different sort of shout, fists clenched in disgust at his side.

Finally, the wolf queen came upon Lord Walder. She stood before him in all newfound grace and glory, looking down on his pathetic demeanor. Sandor felt as if she were queen of the world by the way her people cheered. The rushes of wind at her back made her appear like a goddess of vengeance crowned in stars, brought forth from black seas of sorrow.

“You killed my family, Lord Walder.”

“Tywin Lannister,” Walder rasped. His head was bleeding profusely from an open wound. “It was Tywin…Lord Tywin…”

“Lord Tywin is dead. He did not order the chaos here two years ago. You did.”

“The King in the North betrayed me!”

“And now the Queen has come to kill you.” 

Walder remained silent. Tears fell down his wrinkled cheeks, grunts of sorrow bursting forth from his lips. “You…you will destroy my House?”

“The Twins will go to a different House, or to the mercy of Queen Daenerys’s dragons. They are not a part of the North, so it’s not my decision. The Freys who took part in the Red Wedding will have a choice between castration and the Night’s Watch, or death. The rest will take the clothes on their backs and find some other rock to bury under.”

“Oh,” he wept. “Gods be good.”

“There are no more gods for men like you.” Sansa strode behind him, expressionless as she spoke her father’s words. “I, Sansa of House Stark, eldest surviving child of Ned and Catelyn Stark, Daughter of Winterfell and Queen in the North, hereby sentence you to die.”

She gave him no chance for a final word. Sansa dragged the blade ever so slowly across Walder’s fragile throat, ensuring he felt every notch and rip of skin, before he fell lifeless to the stone floor smothered in Frey blood. Sandor’s instinct was to lunge across the bodies she had made, to shake her, shout at her, to convince her that this was not her job. She was never supposed to be a killer. _That’s my darkness, little bird, not yours._ But it was far too late for that, his opportunity wasted. Sansa spared a glance to no one as she took her leave. The soldiers shouted in intoxicating glory, though their queen did not seem to share it.

Sandor watched her hands tremble violently as the blade fell to the ground. The wind stopped and her mask was removed, leaving nothing but a teenaged girl with blood on her hands. Sansa was quickly ushered away by her council, leaving Sandor behind with her justice.

  


  


“Let me see her.”

“Impossible, Gravedigger.” A man with the sigil of House Umber on his breastplate blocked Sandor’s path. “Her Grace has asked to see no one.”

“Do I look like I could give a single shit?” Sandor reached forth and snatched a handful of the soldier’s tunic, yanking him closer, inches apart. “Let me pass or you’ll find yourself two feet shorter and headless.”

“It’s alright,” came Sansa’s call from inside. “Let him in. He won’t hurt me.”

Sandor did not wait for a reaction. He shoved the nameless soldier aside and strode into Sansa’s tent, desperate to confront her with all he had yet to say.

The words caught in his throat. Sansa turned to him from her pacing, dressed in lavender sleeping robes that hugged her womanly frame and auburn hair rippled over one shoulder. Gods, how he wanted her. He would ravish her then and there if he had even the slightest chance, on the floor, on the bed, on the goddamn table if need be. He would shower her in kisses and fuck her ‘till she screamed, and afterward pull her close and tell her that what she’d done today had been the right thing. Sandor tried to speak, but only silence came forth.

“Gravedigger?” she asked, pink lips parting.

“You’re shaking.” He gestured with his chin to her trembling hands, and she exhaled a laugh, examining them.

“I guess I am. My brother Robb, he…he would get the shakes too. Whenever he was anxious.” Sansa rubbed her hands together to create heat, though she clearly wasn’t feeling a chill. “I killed those men today. I took their lives and felt their blood on my hands.”

“Why the hell did you—“

“Because I had to.” Sansa faced him again, more serious than the last time. “My father always told the boys, ‘the one who passes the sentence should swing the sword. If there is any hesitation, perhaps the guilty person does not deserve to die.’ That is my duty as a queen. If I’m to sentence someone to death, I need to do it myself. Just like he did.”

“You’re not Ned fucking Stark.”

“I’m all that’s left of him,” she replied weakly. Sandor’s harshness melted away, feeling the tears in her soul he knew would burst. “My mother is gone. Robb and his family are gone. Bran, Rickon and Arya are gone. I am all that’s left of the Stark line and if I don’t uphold my father’s values in the North, who will?” Sansa was trembling even more by the time she finished, and she slumped back in a nearby chair, defeated. “It’s all fallen on me. I have to do right by his memory. It’s what I want to do, and it’s what Robb would have done.”

“Don’t do what he did just because he did it,” Sandor advised with a frown she couldn’t see. “Your brother’s a pile of bones and you’re not.”

“I know. I slit the throats of the men responsible.” Sansa held her arms close, staring off into some unknown distance and Sandor yearned to pull her close to him, to smooth her hair and never let go. “Roose and Ramsay Bolton, I killed them too. At Winterfell. Just before I killed Petyr. I thought maybe if I had you near it would make this all easier somehow, to know that I took a life no matter what justice demanded it. I was wrong.”

“Was the thought of your little friend not enough courage for you?” Sandor asked, almost bitterly.

“No,” Sansa replied, wiping a tear from her face. “It only made me wish he were here even more.”

He had not been anticipating that answer, not in the slightest. Sandor’s crippled leg began to ache and he took most of his weight off of it, threatening to topple over should Sansa say any more unexpected and horribly sweet things to him. No further words came from her lips, only gentle sobs as she hugged her knees to her chest and cracked under the weight of duty. The entirety of his soul fractured, rotten pieces falling through the floor.

 _If you ever intend to love her, Sandor, you cannot be afraid of emotion._ The Elder Brother’s words came flooding back to him in the most bittersweet of ways, and he inwardly cursed himself for ever listening to that pious bastard. Sandor pulled out a handkerchief and crossed the distance between him and the little queen, taking her chin tenderly in his calloused hand and wiping her tears with the cloth.

“Enough of that, alright?” he spoke in sincerity. “Piss on the idea that queens can’t cry, but I’ll have none of it. Not anymore.”

Sansa sat in silence, unmoving within his grasp. Her gaze was locked on what she could see of his face as he wiped tear after tear, trying as desperately as he could to resist meeting the gentle oceans in her eyes, knowing they could calm the storms in his. She would hook him ruthlessly towards her and Sandor Clegane would be entirely undone, a Hound once more, loyal and obedient to every breath that drew from her mouth. He brushed a dirty thumb over the sweet lips in question, fixated on their color and texture, wondering hopelessly what they would taste like. He nearly indulged in the fantasy before he was finally able to come back to his weakened senses, his hands removed from her.

A few moments passed. She had yet to say a word, struck dumb by his act of kindness with a look of pure shock on her face. He straightened his back and tossed the cloth atop her bed, looking down at her and scowling. “What?” he barked. “Don’t stare.”

“Y—you—“

“Come on, spit it out.”

“You’re _him._ ” Sansa rose from her seat and stood before her gravedigger, placing small hands on his arms to bring him closer. Sandor’s fragile heart threatened to break open his rib cage and fly free where it couldn’t survive. “You are, you’re him—you have to be—“

Sandor felt the panic rise like bile in his throat. He grabbed her wrists harshly as she reached for his cowl, yet he didn’t let go. “Don’t you _dare_ take that off.”

“You take it off, then.”

“No.”

“What if your queen demands it?” There was desperation in her voice, a little crack of dejected need and it drove sharp steel straight through the center of his heart. “What if I command you to remove it and show me your face, or at least tell me your name?”

“As if you’d give a damn,” Sandor snarled. “You’re a fucking queen now. You don’t bother yourself with drunken, whoring gravediggers. Or cripples.”

“You have neither been drunk nor whored since you came into my service. My men have been watching you. And my brother was a cripple, or had you forgotten?” Sansa struggled in his grip, but he refused to release her. He bored his eyes into her and begged that she fear him, yet once more Sansa shattered the bones of his defense. “’A hound will die for you but never lie to you, and he'll look you straight in the face…’”

“Spit on that!” His grip on her tightened as the anguish in his soul was spurned. “The Hound is dead, little bird. I was with him when it happened. Cut open by Lannister soldiers and left to die by a fucking tree. He’s dead, pretty thing, do you hear me? _Dead!_ ” 

Sansa stood still, frozen under the force of his grip. She blinked once, twice in her ultimate sorrow before responding, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. “Of course he’s dead,” she whispered. “The Hound I knew would never have hidden from me.”

 _Fuck, Sansa. I can't._ His lip trembled and he released her wrists in a forceful shove. Sandor could only drink in the sight of her glistening eyes a moment longer before it became too much to bear, too great a sin to carry, and he knew that coming here had been the worst possible idea. He stormed from the tent in a flurry of agony and anger alike, trudging back to his place of solitude.

His wolf dreams that night were bathed in fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PHEW. What a chapter. I freaked out while writing this 94% of the time, believe me. I hope I got all the characterizations right. I was pretty nervous sending this off to beta but apparently it was all good and clear on that end. THE NORTH REMEMBERS. All of your comments and feedback so far have been so incredibly important and empowering, thank you so much! Chapter four will be out on Tuesday! <3


	4. To Conquer Fear

  


  


A long and restless night brought little comfort for the queen. Sansa tossed and turned and barely found sleep, waking in the morning feeling lazy and unsatisfied. Her head throbbed something fierce and her wrists ached dully from where the Gravedigger—where the Hound—grabbed her. Sansa had dreamed she was chasing after a black dog into the darkest pits of the seven hells, though even as she woke there were no regrets, not even as the abyss threatened to swallow her whole. She pulled the blankets off and dressed for the grueling day ahead, blinking dry eyes in attempt to focus on the food and drink set for her. She could barely stand without feeling ill. Jon entered her tent with the intention of a friendly greeting, though his face instantly fell at the sight of her.

“You look like hell.”

Perhaps she truly did. Sansa leaned over to examine her face in the mirror, brushing her fingers along the spot where the Gravedigger had grabbed her chin, not ungently. Her eyes were red from a long night of tears and her skin was sickly pale. Auburn hair fell in a tumbled mess about her shoulders. She gave no response to Jon’s initial comment.

“There’s somethin’ you’re not tellin’ me, Sansa. What happened?”

She sighed and turned to face her brother, her dear friend, lifting a glass of white wine to her lips. “I was bitten by a hound again. That’s all.”

“You haven’t seen ‘im in two years,” Jon said, bewildered. “After all this time, do you still think of ‘im so fondly?”

“Do you still think of Ygritte?” 

Jon blinked, and gave no reply.

_Maybe it would have been better if the Hound hadn’t returned. Maybe I could’ve put my thoughts for him at rest, but not anymore._ Sansa set her goblet back on the table in favor of a lemon cake. She ate the whole thing, licking remnants of the glaze off her thumb. “I don’t want to talk about it. He’s dead, and I’ll never see him again. I shouldn’t be thinking about it so much.” She set her hands in her lap and fidgeted with them, eyes cast outward to some unknown distance. “He left. And now you’re leaving too.”

A deep frown settled on Jon’s features. “This is different. This is war. And I’m just your brother, not ‘im.” He took her fragile hands in his, squeezing them softly. “Sansa, look at me.”

She bit her lip and obliged.

“Sandor Clegane did what he had to do that night at the Blackwater, from what you told me. I don’t know why and neither d’you. Why is it even important? Gods know where he is now, but you’re gonna be okay. That’s the most important thing; don’t forget it. Dany and I will win the throne and the North will be free, and you can take care of Winterfell just like we planned. It’s all comin’ together. You have to trust me.”

“I do,” Sansa said softly. _But you don’t understand. He was here, I know he was, and he left me when I needed him._ Jon must have seen the agony in her eyes, and though he did not understand, he offered comfort all the same. He brought her knuckles to his lips and kissed them before opening his arms wide, a sad smile on his face. “Come ‘ere.”

Sansa was too weak to disobey. She stood from the chair and wrapped herself up in her brother’s warm embrace, so reminiscent of Robb’s and her father’s. Jon pulled her tightly against his chest and she rested with him, letting him hold her in a way she so desperately needed. There had been no one to comfort her when she executed Lord Baelish, no one to assure her that everything would be alright. There was no one to stroke her hair and bring her peace during the abuse in King’s Landing or the Eyrie, or when Ramsay Bolton sought to savage her. Was there shame in wanting the things of which she’d constantly been denied? Sansa had been alone for so long that she’d almost forgotten what it was like to have someone. She sent a prayer to all the gods she could think of and thanked them ceaselessly for Jon Snow, her savior.

“Feeling better?” he inquired after a few moments.

“A bit.” Sansa lifted her head and smiled. “Thank you, Jon. I’m going to miss you. I’ll pray every single day for yours and Daenerys’s victory in the south, and I’ll await the news as eagerly as any.”

“I know you will.” Jon pressed a kiss of assurance to her forehead. “Come on. We’ve got to rally the men and give ‘em a speech, and then I’ll be on my way, and you on yours.”

Sansa feared he would not return. The last time a Stark lord left for King’s Landing, he never saw the snows again. She did not want to have the stonemason at Winterfell make a statue of Jon too, but she would if it came to that, for Jon was more of the North than he would ever be of the South. He would belong in the crypts beside Robb, two kings who were loved fiercely and killed with equal passion. He would rest beside his true mother and adopted father, and at last he would know peace.

_I can only hope that dragons are stronger than the grave._

Goodbyes always made Sansa grieve. The siblings stood at a crossroads where one path turned south and the other headed north, each with different banners at their backs and crowns upon their heads. Jon’s was made of obsidian and crafted to look like three dragon heads, while hers was silver and diamond, intricate weaves standing in grace. They resembled two different worlds brought together as one, though still independent from the other. North and South, ice and fire. In their hearts, Jon and Sansa would never truly be separated no matter what happened in the war to come. Brother and sister embraced and made promises of familial love before both of them went their separate ways, neither monarch daring to look back.

She had meant to think of him more as her return to Winterfell commenced, but she found herself focused on a single soul alone. The Gravedigger _had_ to be the Hound, the man who kissed her and left her behind while the sky boiled with emerald flame. Sansa remembered the grey sorrow in his eyes. The Hound was always delicate with her, even when he’d pressed a knife to her throat and begged for a simple song. Sansa had seen his heart in that moment, and when the Gravedigger wiped her tears she saw it for a second time. How could Sansa not remember his fingerprint on her soul? _He touched me and I touched him, and for a moment the Blackwater burned with love instead of war. Did he think I’d forgotten? Does he know me at all?_ She wanted to ask him, but each time she searched he was nowhere to be found, hunting or drinking or somewhere a queen had no right to be. 

_Maybe he will come for me again,_ Sansa hoped. But hope was a foolish thing to carry. Hope was the death of wisdom.

The queen didn’t speak much as her army returned north. She was content to remain silent and dwell on her thoughts, speaking to few others as each day passed. They stayed mostly in inns along the Kingsroad and rarely ever stopped, though Sansa grew saddle-sore and ordered an early night three days into their journey. The inn they stayed at was just north of Moat Cailin and a pleasant little place, all things considered. She dismounted her horse and entered the main doors with Brienne at her side, pledging to keep her suffering to herself.

“Your Grace!” exclaimed the joyful innkeep, performing a rather clumsy bow. “You are most welcome here.”

“You’re very kind,” Sansa chuckled, “but I fear I won’t be good company tonight. Three days of riding has made me very sore on the saddle and I’m terribly tired. Could we stop here on our journey home?”

“Of course, yes! Of course!” The stout little man bustled this way and that, preparing for the thousands of soldiers that would take occupancy on his land if only for a night. Sansa thanked him before she was shown to her room, a modest place with a large bed, a hearth, and a table by the window. “It’s the best we’ve got,” he spoke in apology.

“Nonsense. This will do just fine.” 

Her smile seemed to be the only payment he would accept. “That’s good, Your Grace. Very good. I’ll leave you to rest now.” He gave a long bow before leaving, and Sansa would have thanked him properly were she not buried deep in exhaustion and sorrow. _At least he is more appreciative than Lord Baelish ever was._ She moved to the bed and collapsed on it face first, her crown tumbling off. A groan of irritation was muffled by the blankets. _I don’t understand men as well as I thought._

Sansa slept for a few hours before the sun dipped below the horizon, and awoke once more to starlight. A plate of fresh chicken with seasoned potatoes, cooked carrots and leeks had been set out on the small table by the window, along with a little platter of lemon cakes no doubt brought by Brienne. She rubbed her eyes free of exhaustion and lifted herself from the warmth of furs. A fire crackled in the hearth, the most peaceful of sounds that reminded her of Winterfell. Sansa sat by the window so she might eat in peace, bringing the first bite of chicken to eager lips. It was only after swallowing that she realized just how hungry she was, and quickly finished the rest in the most unladylike of ways.

In the tavern below, soldiers and commonfolk were singing “The Bear and the Maiden Fair” at the top of their lungs and dancing in merriment from a war well-fought. _They might not sleep at all,_ she thought with a smile. Not that she could blame them. Their enemies had been defeated and the North, reclaimed. Sansa knew there was much to be grateful for, but her heart was not so secure. There was a hole in her personal joy that a nameless warrior had left behind. She yearned to seek out the Gravedigger and beg for his forgiveness, if only to see him again. What if she had confronted the wrong man? Had she thrown all her desires for the Hound to be alive upon someone who seemed so similar to him? _No, it had to be him. He called me ‘little bird.’ Only one person could say those words with such fondness._

_I need to confront him. I can’t hide as he does._

Sansa was a queen, and queens took initiative. Against her better judgment, she rose from her seat and rushed out the door, knowing no one would dare stop her. The raucous party at the base of the tavern did not notice as she slipped around clumps of drunken men and women, and not long after she found herself outside in sparkling twilight.

“Your Grace,” spoke the many soldiers who bowed and greeted her as she passed. Sansa would have given them proper responses had her mind not been entirely occupied. She broke into a hurried jog, and then a run, desperate to chase down the hound that had fled from her. He deserved so much better than what the world offered him, and Sansa could give him what he’d lost, just as he’d given her more courage over the years than either of them had known. She could bring words of happiness to his unhappy vocabulary and ease him into foreign states of rapture, for his sake if not for hers. But most importantly she wanted to _know_ Sandor Clegane—to know what made him laugh with joy and cry in sorrow, what made him comfortable and what he disdained. She had to know if he’d been there all along, not just a figment of her thoughts and dreams.

“Gravedigger!” Sansa called, stopping to catch her breath as she reached the edge of a cemetery. “Gravedigger!” She cursed herself for not bringing a light source, struggling to observe what her eyes could not see.

“Your Grace?” came a soldier’s query. It certainly wasn’t the Hound, but she was grateful that someone answered her call. “What are you doin’ out here, my queen? The sun has completely set, you should be—“

“The Gravedigger,” she interrupted rather impolitely. “Please tell me he’s here. I need to see him. It’s urgent.” Sansa took the soldier’s hands in hers, desperate for a positive response. She needed it, craved it more than anything. “He’s here, isn’t he? I can go and find him, just tell me where the tent is, tell me where he went.”

“He’s gone, Your Grace.” The soldier frowned, and her disappointment seemed to pain him. “He left just yesterday. He was terribly drunk, you see. Mumbling somethin’ about what wolves and dogs do to each other. I thought he’d gone mad. Haven’t seen ‘im since.”

Sansa’s heart swelled and collapsed all at once. “Gone…?” she muttered. “Why? Why would he do that, why wasn’t I informed?”

“I don’t know, Your Grace. But he ain’t here. I’m sorry, no one knows where he went.”

Her chest nearly burst. Sansa took a few steps backward and eyed nothing in particular, as if something unseen held the answers to her heart’s anguished questions. She clutched her hands together and cursed herself openly. _I’m such a fool,_ she thought, _to think he could possibly love me enough to stay._ Her expression was crestfallen, lost. Before the soldier could inquire to her well-being, Sansa shrugged off his support and turned back to the inn, bearing the weight of poorly timed failure once more.

Winterfell was always a welcome sight, but less so without the ones Sansa loved at her side. The gates swung open to joyous celebration as the people cried out for their queen, hailing the Stark name and waving flags of the direwolf sigil. Though Sansa’s heart was troubled, she did not let it interfere with her ability to rule or appreciate the love that surrounded her. She dismounted her horse and let the people of the North shower her in praise, offering their support and their undying devotion atop all else. _If I am happy in nothing of this life,_ she prayed, _at least allow me to be happy as their queen. If that is all I have, it will be enough._

The feasts that followed Sansa’s return were magnified to the extent of Northern grandeur. She was a guest of the highest possible honor, sitting atop the dias by her faithful lords as the ruler of the Free North. She was offered many courses to try, different flavors of spiced wine, elegant gowns and various gifts, all while she participated in the games and dancing that flooded through the room like a most boisterous sea. Greatjon Umber granted her a rather clumsy dance while Lyanna Mormont twirled herself around the queen. Lord Manderly was the worst dancer of them all, hardly moving from the great weight he carried around his mid-section, but Sansa danced with him all the same and he was delighted to have chatted with her. Even Reek allowed himself a moment of joy, taking her hands on the dance floor and beaming. She spun in the company of this dancer and that, all while her soldiers shouted in triumph that the Freys of the Crossing had been defeated. Never had she seen Winterfell so alive with jubilation, yet even as a queen she felt alone among the crowd.

“Your Grace,” came a grumbling voice from her left. Sansa turned into the open arms of Harrion Karstark, unable to turn down his request for a dance as the music continued.

“Lord Harrion,” she spoke in reply, instantly faking a smile. Lord Baelish had taught her to be good at that. “How wonderful it is to see you again.”

“And you, Your Grace. You certainly have a woman’s figure. Fifteen years have treated you very well.”

_Even his flattery is disgusting._ She tried not to openly scowl. “You are too kind.”

“I did notice that you came back without a king,” he observed, twirling her in a rather harsh fashion as he was not known for grace. “Every woman needs a man in front of her. Even a queen can’t rule without a king.”

“Perhaps you should watch me then, as I intend to do just that.” When he twirled her around, Sansa made sure to let go of his hand and smile in all her gracious courtesy, as if it had been an accident. “I need some fresh air. Excuse me, my lord.” And she left before he could offer a reply.

It wasn’t the first time one of her lords had mentioned the prospect of marriage. Sansa was now the most desirable bachelorette in the North—no, all the Seven Kingdoms. Every man believed that by marrying her, they would become King in the North and rule over half of Westeros’s lands. But Sansa had been smarter than all of them in that regard, even Petyr. A legal document sat in the council chambers, one of her own making, stating that any who ruled the North must be of Stark lineage. Whomever they married would not carry the title of “king” or “queen”. Her husband would simply be the King Consort, a man with no political power. If Sansa had learned anything in her young life, it was how manipulative and exhausting arranged marriages were. She would not allow anyone to abuse her right to Winterfell by exploiting her emotions for a claim on her throne, or that of her children and grandchildren.

Besides, even after all she’d been through, Sansa still fancied the idea of love.

The little queen climbed the stairs to the crest of the main hall, pushing open a wooden door to the frosted outside. She stared out upon the gently falling snow over her home, letting a cool winter breeze grace across her delicate features. She thought back to another life when she, Arya and Bran would make little balls of snow and throw them mercilessly at one another for hours on end, until Mother called them for dinner and the three of them stood beside the hearth, beet red and soaking. Sansa missed those times dearly, as much as she missed everything else that once was. Reminiscing was more painful than it had any right to be. She clutched the direwolf pendant around her neck and sighed, letting thoughts of family distract her.

“I have never seen a Northern party before,” stated a voice from her side. Sansa didn’t need to look over to see the impressive form of Brienne of Tarth, a member of her Queensguard, standing to her immediate right. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much ale in one place.”

Sansa chuckled. “The people are quite fond of it here. When King Robert came from King’s Landing to ask my father to be his Hand, most of our people got so drunk with him that all of Winterfell was nearly put on hold the following morning.”

“I imagine so,” Brienne laughed. “It’s refreshing, though, to see so many people smiling like this. You have brought them peace, Sansa. Don’t forget that.”

“I never could.” 

Silence passed between them before Brienne spoke again, clearing her throat as though the matter was one of great importance. “Your Grace, I came to speak to you about the Gravedigger.”

“What?” Sansa’s attention was instantly captured. “How do you know of him?”

“I’m not sure that I do, actually. It’s all speculation.” Brienne turned to face the queen, her expression one of sincerity. “When Podrick and I were still looking for the Hound, we came across a place called the Quiet Isles, a small island in the Riverlands. The man in charge there, the Elder Brother, told us that the Hound had died. Said he nursed him until his death and buried him. We saw his helm there, and his horse too—but on that same island there was a man digging graves. A novice, someone told me. He was bigger than I was, which isn’t something I normally come across. I didn‘t think much of it at the time, but after I left I thought that perhaps it was strange.”

“What was?”

“The Elder Brother never actually said that _Sandor Clegane_ was dead. He said ‘ _the Hound_ is dead,’ and ‘ _the man you hunt_ is dead.’ The most he would say of Sandor Clegane is that he was at rest.”

Sansa paused, thinking back on the Gravedigger’s words. _The Hound is dead, little bird, do you hear me? Dead!_ She blinked and looked up to Brienne. “What made you come to these conclusions?”

“The Gravedigger who fought for you wore the same hood and cowl as that man on the Quiet Isles. He was crippled, too. He spoke like the Hound, moved like him and swung a sword as I imagine he used to. Even the horse was familiar. I just thought—“

“—that perhaps the Gravedigger was Sandor Clegane.” Sansa sighed, turning back to the sights of Winterfell. “I know. I thought so too, but now he’s gone. Again.” She picked at her nails. “I fear I’ll never find him.”

“Why would you want to? He was known to be loyal to the Lannisters, Your Grace. He isn’t a man I would want by your side.”

“That’s not your decision to make.” She held herself close, for comfort. “He was important to me, Brienne. He still is. I searched for him for months after these people made me their queen, but I couldn’t find him. Days ago I had him right in front of me and I didn’t think to act until it was too late.”

The knight frowned, and while it was clear she didn’t understand, Brienne was known for her compassion. “You are a queen, Your Grace,” she reminded her. “You don’t have to look by yourself if finding him is what you really want.”

Sansa stared at her incredously. “What are you suggesting?”

“Send letters out and search for him. I’m sure he’s somewhere in the North if he only left camp a few days back. Someone is bound to recognize him.”

“Letters?” Sansa blinked. “Do you think that would work?”

“You’re the Queen of the Free North. If you told your kingdom to look for a man and bring him to you, do you think they wouldn’t obey? You saw all the celebration. They love you. They would do anything for you; even bring a gravedigger to your feet.”

“I can look for him,” she muttered, astonished. Her eyes brightened. “I—I can do that. I can find him.”

“Yes, you can.”

“He’s not going to hide from me anymore. I won’t let him. I have to see him again, if only for closure.” Sansa laughed so happily her face seemed to glow. She placed her hands on either side of Brienne’s cheeks, a maternal gesture reserved for those she held dearest. “You are brilliant, Lady Brienne. Absolutely brilliant.” Sansa kissed her cheek and picked up her skirts to dash in the opposite direction, abandoning the party of which she was the guest of honor. Sansa climbed the stairs to her bedroom tower as quickly as her feet could carry her, and when she landed in the chair at her father’s desk, she dipped a feathered quill in an inkwell and began to handwrite fifteen letters that would scatter the entirety of her kingdom.

Sansa continued with the other letters and wrapped them in small vials, dashing quickly to the maester’s quarters where the messengers were kept. She prepared the ravens herself and threw them in flight toward star-studded skies, and one by one her declarations were sent to every corner of her kingdom on the wings of promise.

_Please, Sandor. Don’t be afraid to return to me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "BUT NATALIE WHY ISN'T HE THERE--"  
> Hush. It's okay. Sandor is an extremely fragile and complicated man. His actions will be explained in the next chapter, I promise. It'll be worth the wait. I'm a firm believer that Sandor and Sansa needed to grow apart before they could ever grow together, hence my entire adaptation of this plot in the first place.  
> BUT ANYWAY. Your comments and kudos make me smile, I swear I read every single one of them. Chapter five will be yours on Saturday. I really hope you liked this update.~ Cheers!  
> EDIT: HOLY CRAP THIS FIC IS ALREADY HALFWAY DONE???


	5. Mercy

  


  


The slick sensation of a woman’s heat was not enough to sate him. The whore did her best to act like she enjoyed the harsh treatment Sandor was giving her, moaning and sighing with each thrust as if, for a moment, there was no payment involved. He gripped her tightly by the hips and fucked her hard like the cruel dog he was, grunting in mediocre satisfaction. Tumbles of orange hair spilled down her naked back and her sounds were soft and light, but Sandor’s imagination was entirely lacking and strangled by fists of shame. In his drunken stupor, Sandor thought that even a figment of his wildest dreams would be better to taste than nothing at all. Oh, how wrong he was. The pleasure of his release was a shadow of its former self, and he finished feeling nothing but emptiness.

The redheaded whore looked at him and blinked. _Her eyes are wrong,_ he thought, _made of shit instead of Tully rivers._ She was pretty, though. He couldn’t deny that. Her form was delicate and she was short and slender, with ample tits and a tight fit. Her smile was attractive, her skin made of silk. _But she’s not her, not Sansa. I can’t duplicate her._ Loathing coiled around his chest when he realized it was shameful to even try.

“Won’t you take that cowl off?” the whore asked with a false little giggle, pretending she was interested when in truth Sandor knew better. “I bet you’re awfully handsome. You’re big, too—“

“Spare me.” Sandor laced the front of his breeches and yearned to disappear. “Take the damn payment and go. Flattery is horseshit and it’s wasted on me.”

Her smile faded. “Fine. You’re no fun.” She snatched the small pouch of coins off the table and left him to his grief, slamming the door shut as she exited. Sandor wearily leaned across the bed and snatched a bottle of Dornish sour, drinking until he drowned. He begged to awaken in an unburned life, away from desolation.

 _I’m such a fucking coward._ He draped his arm over his eyes, sighing. _She wanted me, she had me there in her grasp and I fled. I’m not who she thinks I am. She’s too much. I can’t, I can’t._ Sandor Clegane was never a praying man, but he begged the gods every hour for release from her vigorous spell. Sansa’s existence tormented him, perfectly crafted from everything he could never hope to earn. The thought that she could possibly love him was more fearsome than the Blackwater’s flame.

Yet after years of separation, he still remembered her song.

 _Gentle Mother, font of mercy_  
_Save our sons from war, we pray_  
_Stay the swords and stay the arrows_  
_Let them know a better day_

If the gods were kind like all the stories said, why had they spared Sandor such fabled mercy? Was his face a curse? Did his devotion to the Lannisters stamp sin on his heart that was impossible to wash clean? He eyed the empty wine bottle as if it would have all the answers. When he remained unenlightened, Sandor threw it across the room in frustration and reveled in the shatter. He lay back on the bed and slept, dreamless.

Morning was brutal. Sandor’s first thought was to purchase more wine to put the daggers in his head at bay, but he declined those intentions, knowing he had to stay sober enough to remain standing. He trudged out of bed on his crippled leg and thought of all the poison he’d swallowed that night—another whore, another bottle of wine, all purchased with the silver of dead men. Where had the Quiet Isles gone? Surely all his progress hadn’t been for nothing. _I’ll pull it together. Fuck it all, I have to._ The sun was blinding when he pulled the curtains back, making his head spin. It took a full minute before he regained his bearings, forcing his feet to move forward against their will. Sandor sauntered down to the main floor of the inn and slumped on a bar stool, ordering whatever meal was available while his stomach groaned in protest. The mere scent of seasoning made him want to vomit.

“The queen was as beautiful as ever I saw ‘er,” a man called from the middle of the tavern. “Her hair was like the sunset, her gown like white roses. The ghosts of King Robb and Lord Eddard were at ‘er side, and she said loud and clear, ‘The North Remembers!’ Then she changed into a direwolf and bit Walder Frey’s throat ta pieces.”

“Did not,” another man said with a snort. “She just cut ‘is throat with a fancy knife and went cryin’ about it afterward. Hah! Women. Can’t handle the violence I tell ya, should’ve let a man do the work.”

“Maybe she just needs a good stiff cock to sort ‘er out!” cried the original speaker. Laughter erupted from his companions. “I got one for ‘er. I should go to Winterfell and give ‘er seven of my own little blessings.”

“Shut your cunt mouth.” Sandor turned to glare knives at the offensive talkers, and the bustle of the tavern halted. All eyes fell on him and his abrasive stare.

“What did you say?”

“I said to shut your cunt mouth, or I’ll give you a reason to.”

The two men looked warily to one another. “You think a woman can rule a kingdom on ‘er own? She’s probably a virgin! Or do you want to be the one to stick it to ‘er, ay? Jealous?”

“I think you need to stop talking,” Sandor growled, gripping the wooden spoon so hard that it snapped. “ _Now._ ”

“Boys,” spoke the innkeeper. “Take it outside. I don’t want any trouble.”

“It’s alright. The little bastard’s going to shut up now, isn’t he? Yes, that’s right. There’s a smart man.” Sandor rose from his seat and approached, smiling as he dumped all the contents of his breakfast over the fool’s head. Cooked carrots and onions in chicken broth spilled over his greasy hair. He angrily snatched the man by the collar and lifted him from his seat, shaking him so violently that his vision grew static. “Don’t talk about her like that again, or I’ll rip out that vulgar tongue of yours with my teeth.” Sandor dropped him shortly thereafter, snarling, and left before he snapped the man’s spine from his skull.

Stranger brayed nervously as his master approached. Stinking of wine and weeks of despair, Sandor climbed atop the stallion’s saddle and kicked him into a gallop, riding as far away from the whores and the bastards as his indignity dared carry him. He rode for three miles before exhaustion and malnutrition overwhelmed him with nausea. The world began to spin, thoughts of men offering Sansa their “seven blessings” and other curses swarming in his brain like poison. His muscles laxed and his head pounded harder than King Robert’s hammer. A shadowed figure in the distance was all Sandor could see before his vision blurred like tears, fading to black.

  


  


When Sandor woke again, he felt as though his head had split horribly in two. A great groan escaped his lips. The smell of smoke and vegetable stew filled his lungs with comfort, though it did little to stop the headache that made his skull want to burst. He rubbed his face and sat up far too quickly, his vision trembling a moment before rattling back into focus. Stars twinkled overhead and the chill of a Northern night kissed his cheeks with tenderness.

 _The cowl. Where is it?_ Sandor felt his face, half human, half marred by hell. The wool was completely gone, his disfigurement and identity exposed.

“I had to take it off before I could treat you,” said a high male voice, awkward but friendly all the same. “Sorry to wake you. I moved some pans around, I should’ve thought better about it.”

Sandor’s instinct was to draw a knife on the poor sod and bury it deep in his throat, but those methods belonged to the Hound and the Hound was dead. Sandor grunted in agitation, realizing his weapons weren’t nearby. “Who the fuck are you? I want my hood back.”

“I’m not done tendin’ to that wound there,” said the man as he came into view. He was a rather large person, fat around the middle with a jolly smile that suggested he had known peace. A simple chain rested around his neck. “Don’t worry. You can be on your way soon enough.”

“What the hell is a maester doing out in this dump of frozen shit?” Sandor pulled a blanket around his massive shoulders, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I’m on my way to King’s Landing, actually. You’re quite lucky we crossed paths. When I first saw you, a crow was trying to peck your eyes out. You might’ve died had I not seen your horse goin’ mad.” The fat healer sat beside Sandor, dipping a clean rag into a palette of medicinal salve. He looked hesitantly to the larger man, giving no sign of harm. “Hold still while I put this on.”

Again, he grunted. Sandor had grown painfully accustomed to people tending him ever since the Quiet Isles. He did not look at the stranger’s face as he commenced his work, but Sandor could tell there was an open wound somewhere on the side of his head, stinging among the many scars already placed there years ago. He clenched his fists and released. The anxiety and tension was almost too great to bear, but there was solace in seeing Stranger grazing calmly nearby. If his violent stallion was at peace, perhaps there wasn’t too much to fear.

“How did you get up here, anyway?” the man asked when he finished. “You don’t look like a Northman.”

“I was a soldier,” Sandor replied, eyes cast to the ground. Weary heartache seemed to return all at once. “Fought in a bunch of damn wars, even I don’t know how many.”

“Hopefully those days are over.” The fat stranger smiled pleasantly. “King Jon won in the south, did you hear? The Lannisters are defeated and a new Targaryen reign has been established. Queen Daenerys brought dragons, I’ve heard! I can’t wait to see them. Did you know that the last known dragon belonged to—“

“No, I didn’t. And I don’t care.” Sandor bitterly looked upon his savior. “Did the Elder Brother send you, hm? Did he send you to tell me that I’d fucked up my promises? To drag me back to that island so I can shut my mouth for good?”

“What? No.” The maester frowned. “I don’t know any Elder Brother. I’m just helpin’ you.”

“You can help by leaving.” Sandor looked up to the stars and sighed. “You should’ve let me die in this place.”

“But then you’d be no good to anyone.”

“Never have been, never will be.”

“That’s not true.” The man collected his salves and medicines, placing them back in their designated parcel. “I know you belong to someone, or something. Some purpose. Everybody has one.”

“Are you one of those, ‘the Seven have some stupid fucking plan for me’ kind of people?” Sandor snapped. “If so, stuff it up your arse. It’s wasted on me.”

He only chuckled. “Everyone knows the Seven have no power up here. This place belongs to the Old Gods.”

“Talking trees. Even better.”

“Those are the queen’s gods, you know.”

“The queen’s gods, mm. She’s the only god I’d worship.” Sandor rubbed his face, letting a sigh push through his fingers. His body yearned for water but his heart yearned for wine. _The Hound I knew would never have hidden from me,_ wasn’t that what she said? Had he always been a coward? Sandor scoffed and turned to face the confused maester, his expression more akin to psychological misery than mere pain. He snatched the healer’s robes with rage and pulled him close, inches apart, teeth angrily bared. “If you’re so keen on talkin’ purpose, then tell me something. Dogs are known to be loyal, aye?”

“Y-Y-Yes,” the stuttering stranger replied, eyes widened with fear. “I-I had a d-dog growing up. His name was—“

“If dogs are so bloody loyal, why do they ever leave their masters?” Sandor’s grip tightened on the maester and the backs of his eyes stung like venom. “Why are there mad hounds, blood hounds, savage ones? Why can’t they all obey? Can you tell me that, _wise man?_ ”

“I-I don’t know,” the maester panicked, “but even the best dogs can get lost, I suppose.”

Sandor’s sudden laughter was so agonizing that it pained him to force it, such empty joy fueled more by dejection and grief than true amusement. He held his side and laughed so hard he thought he might vomit, and by the time he calmed, the fat man looked as if he’d regretted helping Sandor at all. “Even the best dogs can get lost, huh? You’re funny. A funny little fat maester on his way to see the king.” He released the man and continued chuckling dryly to himself, pulling the blanket closer around him.

“I…I hadn’t meant to make a joke, sir.”

“Really? It’s the funniest shit I’ve ever heard.” Sandor stared hopelessly into the fire. “There are no good dogs. No mercy for hounds.”

“There’s always m-mercy. You just have to be…open to it, I guess. Or listen for it, like a song.”

“Life is not a bloody song.”

“But there are songs in life, right?”

Sandor considered that a moment. “Aye. Maybe before, a long time ago. But not now.”

“Why not? The Mother sings of mercy, doesn’t she? I like to think of that one when I’m scared or sad.”

“So do I, but not for the same reason.” _Gentle Mother, font of mercy…_ Sandor began to mutter under his breath, taken back to a night of emerald fires and tears. “She was such a pretty little bird. Why didn’t I take her?”

“Hm?”

“The girl. I should have taken her, but now she’s got all she ever wanted. And here I am.”

The stranger blinked. Silence passed between them for far too long and Sandor thought the man had abruptly fallen mute. _Did I bite his tongue?_

A gasp sucked in suddenly from the maester’s mouth. “It’s you! Y-You’re the Gravedigger! Oh, gods! You’re so much larger than anyone ever said. This girl, she—she’s the queen, right? That little bird you spoke of?”

Sandor snapped. He rose from his spot and gripped a swift hand around the maester’s throat, ready to interrogate him to death if need be, until the fat man stuttered his defense. “N-n-no, wait! The q-queen, she sent a l-l-letter, askin’ for you! She did!”

“What?”

“Here, let me g-get it for you. I’ve still got it!” Sandor let go and the healer fumbled through his saddle bag, pulling out a letter that bore Sansa’s seal. Sandor snatched it and feasted his eyes upon the words, and though his reading skills were far from perfect he could decipher the letters well enough.

“About two weeks ago she sent copies of this all over the North to look for you,” panted the maester as he rubbed his throat, thankful for life. “She needs to see you. She’s desperate, it’s all she talks about.”

“How the fuck do _you_ know that?”

“Because I’m her friend, you see. I read her a poem about a little bird one time. She burst into tears. I asked her what was wrong, and she said that finding the man who called her ‘little bird’ was all that really mattered to her. That was just a fortnight past, right after she sent her letters. It’s got to be you, isn’t it?”

 _Isn’t it?_ He read the words once, twice, barely convinced that they were real as he traced his fingers over her calligraphy, as beautiful as the woman herself. When Sandor was a child, he begged the gods for mercy. What if _Sansa_ had been their answer, a gift in the most precious form? Perhaps she had always been a candle in the dusk, a soft fire, one he need not fear. She’d led him through the shadow when the night was darkest. Sansa was more a goddess to him than the Seven had ever been, and it occurred to Sandor that if her love was willingly given, a love so pure, maybe he deserved it after all. Maybe the gods brought Sansa into his world to forgive him, for he could not forgive himself. A dose of mercy so the wounded might live in peace. _If you ever intend to love her, Sandor, you cannot be afraid of emotion._ His eyes stung like sparks of new beginning. “That pious bastard.”

“Sorry?”

“I need to get to Winterfell.” Sandor tried to stand, but his movements were far too quick and he nearly lost his footing.

“Whoa, whoa! You’re not—“

“Don’t care. I have to, I have to get back. Should have never left. Stupid, so fucking stupid.”

“Okay, but have a night’s rest first. Winterfell’s a few days from here. Don’t worry. We’re close. You don’t want to see the queen and then fall over from exhaustion, do you?”

“No,” he sighed. “I don’t.” Sandor looked to the fat man in speculation. “Who the hell _are_ you?”

“Samwell Tarly,” the maester replied. “Or, Maester Samwell now. I was in the Night’s Watch with Jon. That’s how I met Sansa. We’ve become great friends, her and I. We’ll see her again soon.”

 _Thank you,_ Sandor wanted to say. _Thank you for this._ But fatigue was too demanding, and he gave in to the sweet promise of rest once more.

  


  


Sandor could care less for Winterfell’s festivities. The celebrations for the Queen in the North and the King in the South’s triumphs were of little interest to him. Wine, brothels or the promise of a warm meal could not tempt him now. Sandor rushed through the gates dressed in hood and cowl alike, through the thickness of the parties and off toward the eastern side. He dismounted Stranger and set him in the stables, wondering all the while how he would explain his desertion to Sansa. Dare he tell her the truth? To do so would risk the exposure of everything he’d ever worked for, the denunciation of a lifetime of wickedness and violence. The Quiet Isles purged him, but that was a small spit of land in total isolation. This was an entire kingdom where word would spread. Sandor was sensitive to those who would poke and prod and make jokes to his face, but would it matter so long as Sansa was his? What were the costs of love? He had never known.

“Where is the queen?” Sandor barked to the nearest guard. 

“Who’s askin’?”

 _Sandor Clegane,_ he wanted to say, but it was too soon for that. “The Gravedigger. I got her damn letter and I want to see her.”

The soldier gave a small nod. It was clear he was rather drunk. “Her Grace is prayin’ in the godswood. I suggest you go in haste.”

Sandor didn’t thank him, but took his word for truth. He moved through the crowds and left Sam behind, searching for leaves of pomegranate and a face carved in weirwood. He had only seen a heart tree once before, when he watched Sansa pray at King’s Landing. Perhaps this place would be different. Perhaps it would answer her prayers after all, and he found himself wishing that for her.

He found Sansa beneath the sacred tree, sitting on a bench made of stone like the poised woman of royalty she was. Her back faced him. He realized they were alone. The music and laughter of celebration outside faded as his focus grew fixed on her, on auburn curls blowing softly in the wind over a gown of plum-colored silk. The sound of rustling leaves accompanied her voice. She must have heard his heavy steps. He clenched his jaw, nervous.

“My father always used to come here,” she said quietly. “He would pray so often for me, for all of my siblings. And my mother. They were so in love.” She fumbled with her hands, the diamonds in her crown sparkling under the moon’s kiss. “Do you ever wonder, Brienne, what things would be like if my father still lived?”

 _She thinks I’m that damn cow._ Sandor would have laughed outright if it wouldn’t give away his position. He said nothing and stepped closer, wondering if she would turn around, but instead the little bird continued to chirp.

“His death seems to be what caused everything. He was so honorable and Joffrey was so cruel. Maybe the Old Gods couldn’t look after him so far south. I don’t know. I just feel so…so empty, and I know he could tell me why.” She stood in grace and approached the hueless heart tree, running her fingers over the frightening face. “He also said that the gods spoke in the wind, but I don’t hear anything. How do I know if they heard my prayers?”

“You ask too many fucking questions.”

Sansa jumped from the depth of his voice and turned around, gaze widened. He saw the recognition as soon as she did. Watching her eyes melt from fear into crystal pools of joy struck the depth of his heart and drowned him. Her sweet little mouth hung open, the corners of her lips turned upwards in a smile. “It’s you.”

He cleared his throat and tried to tear his eyes from her, if only for self-preservation, but he failed even in that regard. _She knows. There’s no point in hiding anymore._ Sandor lifted his filthy hands and pulled the cowl and hood from his face, exposing burns and all. “Aye, little bird. I’m here. What’s left of me, anyway.”

Sansa’s laugh mingled with sobs. Was she still unafraid of his hideous face, even now? She seemed overjoyed to look upon him without a woolen mask to hide behind, and he wished she could be less precious, less heartwarming. It would make acceptance of her far easier. 

“I looked for you, but you left. Where did you go?”

“Nowhere,” he replied, ashamed. “Everywhere. Away from you.”

“Do I frighten you so?”

Sandor laughed at the irony. “Gods, girl. You _terrify_ me.”

She was silent for a moment, but seemed to understand. Sandor was grateful. He could never have explained it himself. The queen bit her lip and approached him, stopping at a modest distance. “Why did you come back, then?”

“You wanted me to.”

“But you didn’t have to, especially not if you’re frightened.”

Sandor scoffed, irritated that she’d forgotten. “None of that shit, little bird. We’ve played this game before. You know how it works.”

“Hm. I suppose I do.” Her smile was sad, anxious. “You still call me by that nickname. Do you see me as the girl I was then?”

“You’re still a little bird,” Sandor replied. “Only difference is, you’re singing your own songs now.”

Her eyes began to glisten with tears, elated and blissful. He wondered how much longer he could look at her without weeping as well. “Come here, please.” She stepped back to the weirwood tree and he followed loyally, without question. Sansa halted his advance by placing a hand on his armored chest and he smothered it with his, her skin soft and warm. “I know you don’t like knights, but if you intend to stay I would make you one. I would make you my sworn shield, if you want.”

Sandor grimaced. “No. Fuck knighthood. And why the hell would you want me to protect you anyway?”

“Because you said you would.” She pulled gently at his hand, clasping it between both of hers. “I remember your words, I always will. ‘I could keep you safe,’ you told me. ‘No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them.’ Out of all the people who have ever promised to protect me, yours was the only vow I ever truly believed.”

His throat caught fire. Sandor refused to let any tears fall in her presence but it was becoming so damn difficult to resist scooping her up in his arms and claiming her entirely as his own. Did Sansa see the effect she had on him? Did she know how tormented he’d been for years over her memory? And if she had the slightest clue, was there a single ounce in her heart that cared? He said nothing, speechless. His hand clung desperately to hers and Sansa chuckled in tearful assurance.

“Sandor,” she whispered, the final layer of his defenses stripped. “Can you kneel?”

“I can try,” he rasped. Sandor struggled to lower himself on his good knee before the queen. They stood at a similar height even as he knelt, but he liked looking at her this way, as impossible equals. He closely admired a face flawlessly crafted of snow and marble, soaking up the tender rivers of her eyes. “I’m not saying any vows. I’m not a damn knight and I don’t have to, but you know my sword’s yours. You know I’d die for you and you’ve known for a long bloody time that I’ll protect you more than I ever protected that little cunt king. I’ll keep you safe.” His loyalty belonged to Sansa ever since they’d met, for reasons he could never explain. “There. That good enough for you?”

“Perfect.” Sansa giggled, a sound so close to his ears, so sweet he could die from it. What was wine and whoring and warfare compared to making Sansa laugh? “I’ll find you a room in the castle, near mine. But first…”

“Seven hells, girl, what else do you want from—“

Sansa wrapped her arms around the thickness of his neck and shoulders, the tightest hug he’d ever received and one of the very few. She did not let go. His arms were frozen, starstruck, unsure of what to do, where to properly place themselves along her body that wouldn’t tempt him into fucking her under the stars. Her warmth invaded cloth and steel and his bones melted into her compassion.

“Thank you for returning to me, Sandor. I truly have missed you. Please believe that.”

 _I do._ He would believe anything she told him in that moment, forever. His hands found their way up the slenderness of her back and he pulled her body closer to him, scarred face buried deep in her sweet-smelling neck. He felt her fingers in his hair, gentle and undemanding. She pressed a kiss to his temple, laughing and crying all at once, overjoyed as he was blissfully relieved. He breathed her in like he did in his dreams, and she kept him close, unflinching.

Blood red leaves rustled gently with the wind. Sandor knew she was his mercy after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "BUT NATALIE THEY DIDN'T EVEN KISS--"  
> Geez, patience! ;D We've got three more chapters to go. I won't leave you hanging. I promise. I've got the ending to this lovely tale all figured out.  
> Also, as I was rereading the story, I noticed how slow-paced it seems to go and I just wanted to make it clear that it's intentional. I wanted this to be slow and organic and loyal to how the characters would actually fall in love, given their situations and whatnot. So yeah. There's that.  
> Also, I've already started planning the next fic I'll write! Much more angsty, much more fast-paced and with a lot of different characters. I think you'll like it. :)  
> Chapter six will be out on Tuesday! Tuesdays and Saturdays seem to be my thing now. As always, your feedback is most appreciated! Let me know if you'd like another fic by me once this one is posted and done, and I'd love some reactions from this reunion scene if you can spare a few seconds to leave a comment. Thanks so much! *kisses*


	6. Paid in Patience

  


  


Dawn crept through the tapestries and cast its glow upon her face, tearing Sansa from dreams in which she’d made the smarter choice. Two days had passed since their reunion in the godswood and still she harbored unbearable regret. Her muscles ached to be surrounded in him, blue Tully rivers wading still in her eyes. She pushed herself up from the comfort of her blankets and held her arms close, lonely. _I wish I had stayed there. I wish I had never left._ He’d pulled her into his strength and embraced her like a lover, and she responded by bidding him a swift goodnight. Wasn’t that the right thing to do? Sansa certainly didn’t believe it, and she felt emptier than she had before his return. The queen sadly sighed, running her fingers through long auburn curls and wondering how to go about repairing her mistakes. _I can’t let him go again._

Sansa considered herself insane for thinking about Sandor Clegane as she did. In the past, she’d often compared lesser men’s physicality to his, their emotional level, the sounds of their voices and the way that they kissed. She touched her lips and wished she had placed them on his, wished she had conquered fears so long instilled within her that dictated who she could love. She was a queen now. Sansa had every right to decide for herself who she would take into her bed, who would father her children and stand beside her throne as she ruled the Free North. Yet no matter how much she fought it, the only person Sansa could envision taking that role was a crippled warrior with half a face. She’d known it when he held her before the eyes of the Old Gods, as the wind whispered words of fate through the leaves. _Did I miss my chance, again?_

“Hello big man!” came a child’s voice from outside her door, startling Sansa from her thoughts. “I’m here to see the queen. It’s morning time and I get to help her prepare for the day. Can you let me in, Gravedigger?”

 _Lyanna?_ Sansa bit her lip and chuckled, listening intently.

“Piss off. My job’s not to let anyone through unless the little bird tells me otherwise.”

“ _I’m_ telling you otherwise. My name is Lyanna of House Mormont and I’m a bear, not a bird. Would you open the door please?”

Sansa heard his deep chuckle through the wood. “A fierce little bear’s gonna push me out of the way, ay? You don’t look like a bear. More like a squealing cub.”

“Hey! I’m a bear, I am! And it’s this bear’s duty to help the queen pick out a nice dress and put up her pretty hair. You don’t scare me.”

“Believe me, I’m not trying to.” A massive fist knocked on Sansa’s door. “Your Grace, there’s a little cub to see you.”

“Let her in,” Sansa laughed, her mood somehow brightened by that amusing interaction. Her door swung open and Lyanna Mormont came skipping into her chambers, all smiles and giggles and bouncing dark hair. She crawled up on Sansa’s bed and sat on her knees, beaming.

“I like the Gravedigger. He’s funny.”

“How so?”

“He thinks everyone’s afraid of him, but they’re not. At least I’m not. Mother says that men with scary faces sometimes have the nicest hearts.”

“Well, don’t let him hear you say that. He may just break you in half.” Sansa winked and poked the girl’s nose, making her giggle. “Come on. Pick out a dress for me, won’t you?”

“Of course!” The girl skittered off of the great featherbed and pulled open Sansa’s wardrobe, flipping through the dresses and humming a Northern tune. Sansa had refused to appoint a handmaiden for the sake of spirited little Lyanna Mormont. Lyanna so enjoyed helping the queen she idolized that having an older girl take the job didn’t set right on Sansa’s conscience. She adored the aspect of a young lady following after her every move, a strong girl with her own opinions who would never be crushed by the cruelty Sansa had faced. Lyanna embodied everything Sansa once was and could have been. It was a wonderful reminder to have rushing about, one that further brought back the memory of home.

“What about this one?” the girl inquired, holding up a gown of fine southern make. The fabric was crafted in midnight blue with gold satin fringing, stitched with swirls of the same hue and a matching belt for her waist. “It’ll look really pretty with your hair.”

“It’s beautiful,” Sansa agreed, “but why so fancy? Am I going somewhere?”

“Yes!” Lyanna giggled. “You’re going to walk around Winterfell with the Gravedigger. He’s only been your sworn shield for a few days. I bet he’d like to know the place he’ll live in for the rest of his life, and who better to show him around?”

 _The rest of his life._ Sansa’s mouth fell open, wondering how Lyanna had put all those pieces together. “I-I suppose, but—“

“That means you have to dress really nice and be extra polite. He’ll be your lord and you’ll be his lady queen. I know you fancy him.” Lyanna mockingly blinked her eyes, batting long lashes in a way that captured Arya completely.

Sansa gasped. “Lyanna, hush!” She leapt from the bed and knelt before the young girl, covering her mouth with her hand. “You can’t say a word, alright? I know you’re young, but this is a delicate matter. You must promise me.”

Lyanna smiled and nodded, and when her mouth was freed she spoke again. “Of course, Your Grace. But you’ll be happy, right? I just want you to be happy.”

“I know.” Sansa couldn’t be angry with that. She curled Lyanna’s hair behind her ear and kissed her forehead with affection. “I’ll be happy no matter what, because I’m your queen. Never forget that.”

“Never.” The two ladies beamed and continued about their morning routine, though Sansa remained suspicious as to how a young girl of ten could be so intuitive.

Lyanna drew Sansa a bath and the two chatted amiably about the goings-on of Winterfell. They laughed and teased and tended to the queen’s needs, and never was Sansa so grateful to have another girl in her company. Ever since Sandor confessed to Arya’s survival, she’d become obsessed with knowing what her sister was like after all these years, if she still lived. Lyanna was very much a mix between Arya and Sansa, or the Arya that once was, wild and fierce though still a lady when the occasion called for it; much like Jon’s mother too, for whom Lyanna was named. Sansa made an internal note to have a discussion with the girl about who Arya and Lyanna Stark were, and the effect their willpower had on the fate of nations. Maybe the Mormont girl could change the world someday, too. Sansa wished that for her.

When the time came to dress, Sansa slipped into the fabric and let Lyanna help with the ties. The contrast of the navy gown and her hair’s bright flame flushed Sansa’s cheeks with color, and when she looked in the mirror Sansa Stark melted away to become the Queen in the North once again. She took a deep breath and released, letting Lyanna tie her hair up in a braided bun while natural curls fell in flyaways around her gentle face. Though her court was mainly at a standstill with the ongoing celebrations throughout Westeros, Sansa still thought it best to make herself presentable and available for any who would need her. Giving a final adjustment to her gown, she declared herself ready. “Thank you for your help, Lyanna. As always, I enjoy your company.”

“Thank you Your Grace, and you’re welcome! I really like helping you.”

Sansa opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, preparing to speak again before she bumped carelessly into a steel wall of armor. She gasped and nearly fell back to the floor, catching herself on stone walls. The armor turned and stared at her with the face of Sandor Clegane, his expression one of amusement as she blinked up at him.

“Have you lost your grace, Your Grace?”

“I was just startled,” Sansa huffed. _I always forget how huge he is._ “You frightened me.”

“There’s a familiar little song. Do I scare you again?” 

“Not at all.”

He turned to face her fully, grey eyes examining her entire form from the hem of her gown to the top of her head. He remained silent for a moment, as if he were stunned from speech. “You look like a queen.”

“Maybe because I am one,” Sansa chuckled. “Why were you standing right outside my door? I had the men bring a chair for you.”

“I’ve been a sworn shield before. I know how to do my job.”

“But your leg will ache if you stand on it for too long, won’t it?”

“Don’t worry about my damn leg. I can still protect a queen from any right cunt who thinks they stand a chance against me.” Lyanna giggled at his language, to which Sandor only smirked. “Enough questions, little bird. Go on. Do what needs doing. I’ll be right behind you.”

Sansa smiled. “I know.”

_You promised to be, after all._

The Northerners did not agree with Sansa’s protector of choice. The entirety of her court had been in uproar for days to see the Hound beside the throne of Winterfell by invitation. It would take time for her people to grow accustomed to a known killer providing protection for the last living Stark, but their derogatory statements irritated her most of all, especially those made behind her back. “A rabid crippled dog doesn’t belong with a wolf queen,” some had said. “Kick him and throw him in the kennels. Send him sniffing elsewhere.” Sansa was so enraged that she’d stood from her throne in a rather uncharacteristic anger and chastised her court for their words. “I have been your queen for less than five months,” she’d snapped, “and already you think me lacking? Do you think I’d give away such a position to anyone? Sandor Clegane is twice the warrior and triple the man that anyone has ever been to me, and I’ll hear no more on who I choose for my guard.” Her court fell silent after that. It wasn’t until she gave her leave for the continuance of other matters that things began to feel normal again.

Her people would simply have to get used to Sandor’s presence. Sansa had let him go once, and she would not make that same mistake again.

By the time high noon had struck, Sansa rid herself of court and other political matters much to her great relief. Most of the North was still intoxicated by celebration and preparation for the coming winter that there wasn’t much business to attend to, leaving Sansa free to do as she wished. She rubbed her forehead as her courtiers and noble lords cleared out of the main hall. “I could use some wine.”

“Never thought I’d hear you say that.” Sandor stood loyally beside the throne, hands behind his back, and Sansa smiled to observe him there. _It’s right where he belongs._ “Wine doesn’t suit you.”

Sansa chuckled dryly. “I used to hate wine, but I guess I’ve acquired the taste. Only for the sweet kind, the white kind. I don’t like sour red.”

“That’s the _only_ kind. Makes you forget everything.” He looked down at her, the ghost of a frown on his lips. “If you don’t like something your people say, tell them to shut their fucking mouths. You’re the queen.”

“I want to hear what they say,” Sansa replied. “But not when it’s about you. I don’t like the things they say, that they’ve _been_ saying.”

“Maybe you should’ve picked a better shield.”

Sansa shook her head, rising swiftly from her marble throne. “They’ll get used to you. I said there was no one else I’d rather have protecting me, and I meant it.” Her smile seemed to affect him, and Sandor appeared nervous in response to her warm gaze. “Does that bother you?”

“Aye,” he said honestly, “but you made your damn choice no matter how stupid I think it is. You wouldn’t listen to me if I tried to talk you out of it. No point in arguing.”

“Good.” Sansa folded her hands in front of her and began walking toward the eastern exit. “Now, come on. I want to see if they have any lemon cakes in the kitchens.”

Sandor groaned and followed her without question. “You eat more of those things than I drink wine.”

“Not true!” she laughed, holding up a single finger. “I just want _one._ ”

“Horseshit.”

“Is not! I have some self-control, you know.”

“If someone put a cart of lemon cakes in front of you, you’d be fatter than half the cunts in King’s Landing.”

“That’s awfully rude, _ser,_ ” Sansa warned. “Fine. I’ll show you. Ready?” Sansa tapped into her mischievous nature and scurried suddenly down the halls, knowing it would take Sandor some time to catch up. He called out to his queen and her response was only laughter, rounding the corners so he might not notice where she’d gone, though the answer was obvious. The smell of lemon sweetness filled the halls the closer she came to the kitchens and she darted through the open doors, ecstatic. “Your Grace!” exclaimed a cook as Sansa hovered over a platter of freshly baked lemon cakes, warm and beautifully glazed. She snatched one of the small pastries and stood atop a nearby stool, beaming as Sandor came rushing in.

“Making a cripple chase you?” he panted, shaking his head. “Not so bloody queenly after all.”

“Come here. Try this.” Sansa gestured forward with her hand, summoning him. “You can’t be my sworn shield and not try one.”

“What if I think lemons are shite?”

“But you don’t.” She laughed, waving her hand to pull him in. “Come on. Try it. Please?”

Sandor groaned, clearly irritated, though Sansa knew he was well aware of her playful notions. He strode toward her and took the little cake from her hand, shoving the whole thing in his mouth. 

“Well?” Sansa asked.

He chewed in contemplation, considering the taste before swallowing. “It’s alright. I’ve had better.”

“Just alright? They’re heaven in a pastry! My turn.” Sansa took another from the platter and mimicked the way he’d eaten it, licking the sweet glaze from her fingers. “Mmm. My favorite.”

“Everybody knows, from Dorne to the fucking Wall. You should keep quiet about your indulgences, girl. Lemon cake would be a damn good way to poison you.” Sandor pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, shaking his head. 

“What are you—“ He took her wrist and held it aside to wipe bits of glaze from the corner of her mouth, delicate and precise. Sansa stood shocked. His touch was gentle and her breath halted as the rough skin of his fingers brushed against her cheek, the gray hue in his eyes dragging her willingly forward to him. She didn’t think, resting a hand on the cool metal of his breastplate as their shared gaze turned into something different, something sweeter. There was longing in his stare, a sadness made deeper by the affection she showed for him. _What grieves you so?_ She opened her mouth to speak, but the moment shattered.

“Your Grace!” came the booming voice of Greatjon Umber, beaming as he squeezed his way into the kitchen. “There you are. Thought you’d be here! Could smell those damn lemons from the Wolfswood.”

Sansa pulled away from her shield, irritated. “Is there something you need, my lord?”

“Clegane’s time is up. Go on, Gravedigger. Hound. Whatever you like to be called. You can enjoy the rest of your day, I’ll see to the queen.”

Silence passed between them. Sandor looked to Sansa with an unreadable stare before he bowed low to her, expressionless. “Your Grace,” he said in parting. 

And then he was gone, her words to call him back stuck uselessly in her throat.

The remainder of the day was nearly eventless. Sansa mingled with her people and gave instructions on the fortifications of Winter Town, helping some of the northern clans settle within the hundreds of homes designated for them. She stopped for a meal within the Smoking Log, Winter Town’s alehouse, all while the Greatjon protected her where Sandor Clegane should have been. It didn’t feel right, walking around without her sworn protector at her side. She knew it wasn’t fair to keep him in her company all the time, but Sansa would taste a lie to say she didn’t miss his presence. By the time the moon had risen to signal the end of a long day, the queen stepped into her room and collapsed atop her massive featherbed, alone.

Sansa lay still for a while, dozing in and out before knowing sleep would not take her any time soon. Her mind was too restless, too focused. She rose from the bed and tended to the crackling hearthfire, jabbing at the logs with a metal poker and watching sparks fly. Heat flooded over her face and skin and she stared a moment, transfixed by the orange glow of flickering flame. Her thoughts returned to Sandor unwillingly. _What horror must someone endure to be pressed to the fire like he was?_ she wondered. _What kind of monster could do such a thing to a child?_ She sat before the hearth and brought her knees to her chest, holding them close for comfort. The mere thought of Sandor’s childhood trauma was enough to disturb anyone. She remembered when he told her the grim tale, stinking of wine and frightening the life from her poor young spirit. What sort of hell was he made to suffer? None of the possibilities were pleasant.

For so long she wished she’d gone with him, away from King’s Landing. _Why didn’t I? Did I ever find an answer?_ Sansa was never able to make her own choices until she grew enough to understand the consequences of them, to know in her heart what it meant to disobey. Perhaps it was fate that pinned Sansa to the bed when the Blackwater burned, and destiny that stopped her from chasing him. _If I had gone with the Hound, I might not be here. I might still be the scared little girl I once was._ Sansa toyed with the silver direwolf around her neck, eyeing the fire as it danced until her heart began to dance with it. _But I’m not afraid anymore,_ she realized. _I can take care of myself._

Her breath caught suddenly in her throat. Did the barriers still exist? He came to her when the sky was filled with fire— _her,_ no one else, not even the king he swore to protect. She touched his face and felt his tears and knew that a gentle heart pumped beneath decades of horrid scars, self-inflicted and otherwise. _I could love him,_ she realized. _I could make him mine._ Sansa wanted to cherish him like a novel, to flip through his pages at leisure and stamp her name on the cover. She ached to wrap him in her arms and rain love upon his soul, to teach him that the world is not made of fire as he believes. _I am a softer flame,_ she knew in her heart. _He doesn’t need to fear me, nor I him._

Sansa rose in a fluid motion. Determination drove her mad. She dashed across the room and snatched her fur cloak from a nearby peg to drape it around her shoulders, slipping her feet into comfortable shoes. She threw open the door to confront fears long dead, but she halted at the sight of the Greatjon standing in the hall.

“What are you doin’, Your Grace?” he asked suspiciously. “You should be sleepin’ by now.”

“You don’t have to stand out here tonight, Lord Umber,” she spoke in haste. “I’ll be alright.”

He scoffed. “Is that a damn joke?”

“No,” Sansa sighed. “You and your men are leaving for Last Hearth in less than a fortnight. I’m giving you leave to finish preparations. I’ll be alright, my lord.”

Lord Umber observed her a moment with a calculating stare. “There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” He pulled up Sandor’s chair and sat, eyeing the queen at equal height. Anxiety filled her. “You’ve got a cloak and shoes on, and you’re not in your nightdress. You’re goin’ somewhere. This is about the Gravedigger.”

Sansa gulped.

“I’m not blind. Do you really intend to keep ‘im around? Everyone seems to think he’s a monster.”

“He isn’t.” Her stance on the issue was firm and final. “I’m sick of people bothering me about it. He’s here and he’s staying. I don’t want to hear another word.”

The Greatjon laughed, a full and barreling sound that roared through the halls. “Now that’s a queen’s command if ever I’ve heard one. Ah, but the choice is yours an’ I’ll respect it.” He placed a giant hand upon her shoulder in reassurance. “Just remember, if the bastard gives you any trouble you didn’t ask for, I’m one of the few people in all of Westeros who is taller and stronger than he is. Say the word and I’ll bury him.”

Sansa smiled in reply. Though his words were harsh, Jon Umber was one of the most loyal men she had ever known. Robb and her father had trusted him with their lives. He would not fail her. “You’re relieved, my lord.”

“You want me to fetch the lucky dog for ya?” He gave another great laugh, one that vibrated through the stone around them. “Don’t say no, I know that look in a woman’s eye.”

Sansa’s cheeks flushed with color. “I—No, I just—“

He laughed again, clapping her hard on the back. “Gotta admit, I didn’t see that one comin’. I’ll go get ‘im.“

“Wait,” Sansa interjected suddenly. “I mean—no, my lord. Please. I’d like to speak with him myself, if you don’t mind.”

The Greatjon blinked, then nodded in understanding. “Alright. At least let me take you outside, Your Grace.”

“Thank you.” Sansa smiled as he led her down the spiral stairs. The two parted once they reached the base of the castle, saying their goodnights and offering well wishes. Moonlight illuminated freshly powdered snow across the courtyard, and she saw torchlight flickering in the distance. No other man seemed to be awake.

Save one.

She found him tending to his horse in the stables, muttering something unheard to the massive stallion to soothe him. Rough hands stroked down the horse’s neck and the beast brayed, digging his hooves into the dirt and snorting. “Quit,” Sandor ordered. “Get used to this. We’re not in King’s Landing anymore.”

“Is something wrong?” Sansa asked with a voice soft and precious. The glow of a nearby lantern illuminated the cracks and craters of his savaged face when he turned. He eyed her a moment, his gaze soft and pensive.

“Stranger doesn’t like people. Don’t get close.”

“Nonsense. He’s alright.” Sansa knelt before a chest of food, retrieving a fresh apple. She approached Stranger and offered it carefully. He sniffed at the gifted treat before devouring it out of the palm of her hand, content. “He’s a good animal. Foul-tempered maybe, but still good.”

Sandor stared at her as if she’d achieved a miracle. “He bit a man’s ear off and broke another’s shin.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not a man, then.” Sansa smiled up to Sandor, who returned the gesture with a half-smirk.

“What are you doing here, little bird? Thought you’d flown off to bed.”

“Not yet.” Her heart thundered in her chest. “I, uhm. I thought I would ask you to join me for a cup of wine.”

“Wine?” Sandor laughed, shaking his head, and it occurred to her suddenly that she’d offended him. “No, _Your Grace._ I’m not one of those pretty little cunt knights you used to chase after. Pick one of them to warm your bed.”

Heat flushed her face, but it was not the heat of bashfulness. Sansa’s brows furrowed and she huffed angrily. Why did men always come to _that_ conclusion? “I didn’t ask for someone to warm my bed, _Sandor._ I asked to have a cup of wine. You haven’t told me how you found me, where you’ve been all this time. I want to know. I want to know everything.”

He hesitated. “Why would you want that?”

“Because I _care,_ ” she spoke with unending tenderness. “After all this time, do you still not know?”

Sandor’s expression was agony. She wished she knew why, desperate to heal the wound that made him suffer. He snatched her harshly by the arms and pulled her close, leaning so their faces were inches apart, eyes of fog boring into her. His scars burned brighter in the firelight. _He’s trying to scare me,_ she realized. _He wants to see if I’ll flinch away from him. I won’t._ Sansa stayed firm in his grasp and did not cast her eyes from his, thunder clouds and oceans making hurricanes in their stare. She reached to touch his face, brushing her thumb along the ridges of his burns, and after a time the daggers in his eyes melted into pools of warm steel. He was at her mercy. When Sandor spoke again, his voice was jagged and cracked. “Fly back to your nest, little bird, and wait for me.”

“I will.”

He let go of her and turned away, and Sansa released a breath she didn’t know was held.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "NAAAAAATAAAAALIIIIEEEEE--"  
> I know, I'm an asshole. To leave you waiting for the goods like that? Poor you! Saturday is a big day, guys. I can't just post that kinda stuff in the middle of the week. IT'S A SCHOOL DAY. THINK OF THE CHILDREN.  
> No, all joking aside, this was another chapter that I enjoyed writing. I was entirely sure that I'd messed up their characterizations but when my sister edited it she was like "uhh this is the best one so far???" so, I don't know. That's common with me--the chapter I feel will do best always gets shut out by the one I least confident about. But hey, I'm not complaining! (Maybe this chapter feels weird because they're actually HAPPY. Huh. What a weird concept.)  
> Chapter seven will be out on Saturday, my lovelies! Your comments have made me giggle with glee and get more excited about giving gifts to this wonderful fandom. I hope you all had a happy Mother's Day! See you soon!


	7. If Loving Her Was Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **THINGS TO NOTE BEFORE READING:**   
> 
> 
> * click for [optional background music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3j3okb3kuts)  
> 

  


  


Above all else, Sandor was still a man. He knew what a “cup of wine” could lead to, knew what she was asking of him. Sansa was pure and precious and a delicacy to any who would cherish her the way that he planned, but it still felt wrong, sinful, like ripping the wings off a songbird. She was the Queen in the North. He was a soldier, a dog, a man with half a face. She would marry into some noble house and her husband would become a king, while Sandor spent his days drinking and whoring and wishing things were different. There was no room in the life of a wolf to tend to a hound’s heart. Still, even for the smallest moment, Sandor allowed himself to believe that what he felt could become real. He allowed himself a chance to hope.

If she wanted his story, he would gladly give it. He owed her that much. Perhaps that was all Sansa truly wanted and her intentions weren’t as physical as Sandor dreamt they would be. He was no savage, after all. _Don’t hurt her. If she says no, run._ Those were his rules and he would stick plainly to them, begging the gods for the conviction to do so. They knew that red hair and blue eyes could cripple his resolve, turning even the strongest of moralities on their heads. But whether Sandor wanted to admit it or not, he would rather burn than hurt her. She was all he had left.

Sandor swallowed the lump in his throat as he came face to face with her door. He extended his fist and knocked. “Come in,” she called, and he obeyed.

Winterfell’s royal chambers weren’t as extravagant as the ones in King’s Landing, but they were certainly more welcoming, more like the word “home”. Warm stone walls surrounded him, heated by the hot springs bubbling beneath the castle. The bed was smothered in various rare furs of bear, fox and deer. Carpets and drapery donned the Stark colors of silver and white, given an orange tint by the flickering fireplace. Massive bookshelves stood floor to ceiling against one wall while the rest were crested with windows and tapestry, various swords hanging from the stone, including the Valyrian steel dagger she used for executions. He stepped further into the room and closed the door behind him, apprehensive to the core.

Sansa sat in a chair beside the hearth with a cup of wine in her hands. She wore a nightgown of ivory under a teal robe, tied around the curve of her waist for modesty. Hair of dark fire reflected the flame in the hearth, making Sansa glow. She smiled. “You came.”

“You asked me to.” Sandor cleared his throat. He looked down at the table set between two chairs, grinning at the sight of a familiarly labeled bottle. “Dornish sour,” he laughed, picking it up by the neck.

“I think it’s bitter, but I know you like it. I promised a cup of wine, didn’t I?” Sansa flashed him a smile and gestured to the empty chair. He took it willingly, though it was far too small for a man of his size and he squirmed in discomfort.

“Should’ve gotten a bloody bench.”

“Two of them,” Sansa giggled. She took a cup from the small table and handed it to him. “Here. For the wine.”

Sandor took it and said nothing. Normally he would drink liquor straight from the bottle, but he didn’t want to leave that impression on Sansa. He filled the glass and set the bottle back where it belonged, swirling the scarlet liquid around in his cup. Neither of them said a word for quite some time, which was comforting in its own way. Sandor was simply relieved to be with her. Each inhale came easier and his shoulders laxed from stress. He glanced to Sansa, discovering her Tully gaze already upon him. Her eyes were tender and warmhearted. He was too weak to look away. _Seven hells. She’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen._

Sansa took a tense breath and released, staring off into the fire, wrestling with words. “I thought I might, uhm…share my story first.”

Sandor wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it, knowing none of her traumas would have happened had he stolen her the night of the Blackwater. She adjusted in her seat and took a long sip of sweet wine, pulling her hair gracefully over one shoulder. She was beautiful without trying. He could not refuse her. “Go on.” 

Sansa bit her lip, and spoke.

“After you left, Joffrey was betrothed to Margaery Tyrell. I thought I was free of him. Robb was fighting the war. I thought that if I could just get away, somehow I’d be able to see Winterfell again. To go home, to see my family. But I was wrong.” She paused a moment, sorrowful. “I was stupid and foolish, and it cost me so much. Lord Baelish offered to take me away too, but I thought I was going to marry into the Tyrell family by Margaery’s offer. I was happy. I could learn to love Highgarden as I loved Winterfell. But that, too, fell away. The Lannisters made me one of them and Tyrion became my husband.”

Sandor’s fists clenched. “Did the dwarf hurt you?”

“No, no.” Sansa shook her head. “No, Tyrion was good to me. He always was. He protected me from Joffrey and refused to consummate our marriage before I wanted to. We shared a bed, but we never _did_ anything. He never took advantage of me. I consider him a friend. When I travel south for Jon’s wedding, I’ll look forward to seeing him again.”

Sandor had always hated the bastard, but he was begrudgingly glad of Tyrion’s refusal to touch Sansa. “He was always a smart little shit. I’m glad he was too smart to hurt you.”

“Me too.” Sansa smiled sadly and went on. “After Joffrey was poisoned, Lord Baelish took me to the Eyrie. I pretended to be his bastard daughter and dyed my hair, chose the name Alayne. He taught me all about manipulation and deceit and how to become a person of power, but he was vile and cruel, twisted. My mother may have been his love, but my father was Eddard Stark, the most honorable man in the Seven Kingdoms. I learned Petyr’s games but I had my own way of playing them. He saw that in the end.”

“How did you get from the Eyrie to Winterfell?” Sandor asked, taking a drink. “You couldn’t have done it by yourself.”

“Petyr proposed a marriage between Ramsay Bolton and I,” Sansa replied, and her face turned suddenly darker. “Lord Baelish took me to Winterfell after my aunt died. I had to see my home defiled by the Boltons, to look Roose in the eye and play polite just so I could keep my head.” Her jaw tightened. “And I had to marry Ramsay.”

Something in Sandor’s heart stirred. “Don’t know anyone by that name.”

“You wouldn’t want to.” Sansa brought her knees to her chest. He didn’t like the expression he saw in her eyes. “Ramsay was a torturer, a mutilator. He’s the one who flayed Theon and turned him into what he is now. He raped women, tore people apart, he skinned them alive and made their families watch…”

Sandor scowled. _If he hurt her, I’ll bring her his head._ “Sounds like Gregor.”

“A bit. Only Ramsay was much smaller, and I was able to kill him.” Sansa’s eyes were fixed on the fire in the hearth, and he watched her all the while. “On our wedding night, he tried to force himself on me. I didn’t let him. I shattered a wine bottle over his head and Theon and I woke the city. Lord Bolton didn’t have many men left by the time Winterfell had risen to protect me, and I took Roose and Ramsay prisoner. When Petyr tried to take me too, he met the same fate.”

Sandor saw the burden of regret in her Tully eyes. Only a soul as gentle and compassionate as Sansa’s could bring justice to those who hurt her and still yearn for peaceful alternatives. He wanted to comfort her, but Sandor knew that if he was allowed to touch her he might never stop. “You shouldn’t have had to do those things.”

“I know.” Sansa sighed. “But I did, and now I’m here. All of Stannis’s Northmen came to me, and after he fell I was crowned queen and Jon was king. Then it all happened so fast. Letters to Daenerys, allying with other houses, protection from the Lannisters and Tyrells…it’s all been a blur. I’m a bit scared to rule an entire kingdom, but I’ll find the strength somehow. My father did, Jon did and Robb did too. Now, the time is mine.” She faced him then, her frown turning slightly upward. “What about you?”

Sandor pushed out a long sigh. _Does she really want to hear this?_ He swallowed the rest of the wine in his cup before setting it atop the small table, leaning back against the chair. It creaked under his weight. “I already told you about your little shit of a sister.”

“You did,” Sansa replied.

“I found her with the Band of Brothers, or whatever the fuck they’re called. Traveled with her a while. Taught her some things, and she taught me things too. We were at the Red Wedding, we saw what they did to your brother. With the wolf’s head. I was going to join him.” Sandor scoffed. “I was gonna fight for your brother, little bird. It was my shit luck that got him killed before I could protect anyone. So I took the Stark girl away.”

“Arya,” she said softly. “Her name is Arya.”

“Arya,” Sandor confirmed. “We went to the Eyrie and found out your aunt had gotten herself murdered. Sat down in an inn where I got piss drunk, picked a fight with a few Lannisters. They nearly killed me, the cunts. Your sister, Arya, left me alone to die, and she took all my bloody silver.” He stared at his hands, picking at his nails for distraction. “I thought about a lot of things. I thought about the people I’ve killed and the people I didn’t. About those I couldn’t save. About you.”

“Me?” Sansa blinked. “Why?”

Sandor laughed, but the sound was bitter and his heart was equally hardened. ”You’re shitting me.”

“What?”

“Are you really so blind?” He stared at her, watching her expression fall from content to anxious in the span of a second. His voice was harsh and jagged. “I let myself believe that the thought of you was keeping me alive. But _fuck,_ Sansa. You were what killed me. I thought of you damn near every minute of every day and it ate me from the inside out. I drank so fucking much the world spun more often than not, and it left me bloody and dying under a damn tree. A monk came and tended to me. Promised me a better life on the Quiet Isles. I went there, spent six months digging graves and healing until I heard you’d survived. I left after that. You know the rest.”

But she didn’t, not all of it. He could tell her his life story if he had the means, if he had the confidence to confide in her the years of violence he’d been made to suffer at the world’s hands. He had seen a portion of Sansa’s torture, but hers was a mere shadow in comparison and he only wanted to spare her the thought. Sandor buried his face in his hands and pushed a sigh through his fingers, leaving words unsaid. There were too many horrors in his heart to release them all at once. The Elder Brother had done what he could to purge those demons, but it would take a god’s work to heal him now.

Gently, he felt her. Soft fingers brushed against his knuckles like a feather. Sandor opened his eyes to see the little bird perched on her knees before him, peeling his hands from his face with great care. Her eyes sparkled with salvation and sadness. He stared at her a moment, transfixed upon her holy vision before her words distracted his thoughts. “The Blackwater,” Sansa muttered, barely above a whisper. “Why did you kiss me?”

“I didn’t.” His voice was harsh, gruff, but not without tenderness.

“You did. I remember it.”

“No I didn’t,” he asserted.

“How do you know?” She was so close, so precious and near and dear to him that he could no longer keep himself together. He wasn’t strong enough. When he spoke, his voice wavered. “I’ve never _been_ kissed, Sansa. Who would touch this wretched face? Who would look at it? If I’d kissed you, little bird, I would have remembered. I wouldn’t have spent my dying breath wishing that I had.”

 _Oh,_ her eyes said, and suddenly she knew. Soft hands cupped either side of his face, both human and desolate, each with equal affection. _Don’t you understand?_ he thought, but her expression answered the agony at his core and she came closer until there was no space left between them. Sansa’s lips brushed against his, stopping his heart, making him fly.

Sandor could have wept. He should have, but all he could think of was how desperate he was for her ardor to replenish what was broken. She pulled away and blinked up at him with curiosity, asking him without words whether or not this would be okay.

He refused to let the fate from his dreams come to pass. He would have that second kiss, and the third and fourth and however many more she would allow. He hooked an arm around her waist and gripped the back of her head, meeting her lips with a sudden bruising force that shocked the both of them into passion. She hummed into his mouth and he drank in the sound, the taste, everything she offered him in such a wild spur of the moment. Her lips parted and he slipped his tongue between them, desperate for the intoxication Sansa Stark would bring. Their mouths mingled in a white hot fire of everything they’d never said, all the thoughts that tormented them over the years finally brought to action. The taste of her was sweeter than any wine or revenge could possibly be.

Sansa gasped as he hoisted her up to straddle him, but the sound melted into a giggle and she showed no sign of protest. The strength of his arms held her frame and she kissed him so lovingly, so deeply that his head spun and his heart jolted in irregular beats. Their breathing sped in tandem and her fingers slipped into his hair, a sensitive point Sandor didn’t know he had. Her fingertips on his scalp made him groan in encouragement and his need for her spiked when she giggled against his lips. Her smile was so beautiful, so redemptive that he couldn’t keep himself from tasting it. Moscato was on her lips just like in his dreams, and he laughed into her open mouth.

Sansa’s hands trailed southward, tugging at the laces of his tunic. She kissed him with wild passion and Sandor knew he was crazy to deny her, but he gripped her by the arms all the same and pushed her away. “You’re a queen,” he panted.

“Queens make their own decisions.” She kissed him again.

“Your husband will be a king.”

Sansa’s smile fell and she rested her hands on his chest, eyes pleading. “King _Consort. _No political power. I made the decree myself. No one will use me for my throne, and I’ll follow my heart wherever it leads me.”__

“Even to a crippled killer?”

“Even then.”

Sansa cupped his face and kissed him once, tender and saccharine, but Sandor was much more driven in his desires and could not keep calm. He gripped the back of her head and captured her sweet mouth with his own, silencing any reprimand with a slip of his tongue. Her hands returned to his neck and hair and he pulled her deeper into his lap, their hips coming to meet in waves of febrile pressure. Sandor’s free hand yanked at the tie around her waist. Sansa pulled away to remove her robe, returning to contact when it was on the floor, forgotten.

Her arms were porcelain and soft to the touch. Sansa eagerly kissed him again but Sandor had other plans, breaking their lips to taste her skin. Her cheeks and her jawline were sensitive, but when his lips met her neck Sansa squirmed in delight. Her sigh was a call to continue, his mouth pressing every inch of her neck that made her gasp and giggle.

“That tickles,” she huffed, and Sandor could hear the smile in her tone.

“Mm,” was all he replied, thoughts elsewhere. He held tight to her back and hips, locking her against him so he could lick the honey from her skin. Her sighs were becoming all that he lived for, little inhales that she couldn’t control, her body sending foreign signals that she must be scrambling to understand. And she was letting _him_ initiate them for her. No fear of his face, no hesitation.

Sansa gripped his tunic and slid it upwards, and he obliged to her silent request. Sandor lifted his arms as she pulled the fabric away from his body, exposing every muscle and hair and scar that made Sandor who he was. She stared, speechless. He felt old fears return.

“Not as pretty as you would have liked?” he asked dryly.

“Stop that.” She placed her hands on his bare chest, over hot skin and hard muscle and hair. Her fingers glided along a great scar. “You have so many. Are they all from war?”

“Childhood, fights, war, everything.”

“Childhood?”

He nodded. “A lot of them are. Including this.” He pointed to his disfiguring burns. “You remember the story.”

“I’m sorry.” She cupped his face. Sandor adored it when she did so. It made him feel human, secure and protected. How long had those pieces been missing? Sansa kissed him slowly and sweetly and he drank in her affection like water, for his soul was parched and dry. Her hands slid along the brick wall of his chest and he hummed in contentment when her lips moved along his neck, mimicking his earlier practice.

Her mouth was soft and her lips tender, but they moved farther down than he anticipated, over his throat and collarbones. _She’s kissing my scars,_ he realized, and it made him want to cry. Each one Sansa could reach, she graced with a little kiss that drove the nails in his coffin. _She’s too much, too much. Gods help me, I can’t fucking bear it._ Before any tears could break free, Sandor grabbed her by the chin and dove to take her mouth, sparking the flame of their equal passion again. His tongue found home between her lips and her body pressed against his, and he knew he couldn’t wait much longer. “Sansa,” he sighed, begging for the approval that she readily gave. He gripped her tight and stood, her legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. Scorching kisses marked their passage as he laid her down atop fur blankets, humming into her mouth, soaking in her consent. She broke the contact to scoot further into the middle of the bed, but Sandor was quick to follow, desperate for her redemptive kiss. She was mercy, sweet mercy. Their lips crashed and his core ached for her, stronger than any lust he’d ever known. He settled between her legs. Sansa’s hands rested on either side of his marred face yet again, and she hesitated.

“I—I’ve never—“

“I know.” He silenced her with another kiss. “I know.”

“I’m not afraid.” Sansa’s breath was ragged. “I’m nervous, but not afraid.”

“I know,” he said again. “I can feel your hands trembling.”

She gave a breathy chuckle. “Don’t worry about it. You won’t hurt me.”

“No, little bird. I won’t hurt you.” He stole another kiss from her lips before moving down, down, down her jawline and her neck, to her collarbone where the edge of her nightgown began. Calloused hand slid up her thighs, bringing the fabric with them, and Sansa’s breath hitched when she realized what was happening.

“Shh,” he cooed to her. “It’s alright.”

She knew it was, or seemed to, for she offered no protest. Sandor slipped the thin nightdress over her head and tossed it to the floor, hovering above her so he might capture the sight Sansa offered him. She was blushing and he found it adorable, but he didn’t look at her face for long. Sansa was sculpted from flawless marble, the shape of an hourglass, absent of any scar. Her tits were _gorgeous_ and the perfect size for his hands, and a few little freckles along her chest marked places he would surely kiss. Ginger curls signaled the presence of her sex between soft thighs. Sandor could barely move, let alone breathe or think or whatever the hell normal people did in those situations. “ _Fuck,_ Sansa. I don’t deserve this.”

She propped up on her elbows and Sandor lifted his gaze to her. Again, she touched his face. “If you think this isn’t something you’re good enough for, remember that I deserve this too. We deserve to be happy together.”

“I don’t think I can give you what you want,” he rasped. “I know the songs you love so much. Florian and Jonquil, the Bear and the Maiden Fair. Bullshit. I can’t give you that sort of thing.”

“We’ll make our own song, then.” She sat upright, taking his face in her hands. “Do you trust me, Sandor?”

“More than anyone.”

“Then please, listen. Even if you don’t deserve it I’m giving it to you anyway, because I want to. This is my _choice,_ don’t you see how important that is? I don’t want a handsome knight anymore, I’ve seen what they can do. I don’t want a castle or roses on my nameday or sweets and nice words and—“

 _Enough,_ he thought, taking her mouth in a harsh kiss. _Enough words from your pretty lips. Kiss me._

Sansa seemed to understand the message. Her tongue slipped into his mouth and her back hit the furs once more. Sandor leaned over her, possessive. His hands begged to touch her and claim her as his own. Calloused fingers trailed along her sides and she cringed, giggling and sighing all at once, little sounds that drove him sensually insane. But it wasn’t until his fingers brushed along the peaks of her breasts that Sandor received the reaction he truly wanted. Sansa’s voice moaned from the pleasure that seemed to shock her, and again her cheeks turned red, as if she hadn’t expected to make such a sound. He brushed his thumbs over the hardened tips again and she bit her lower lip, mimicking that same heavenly noise.

Sandor lowered over her and took one in his mouth. He sucked softly and flicked his tongue where he knew she would like it, and she wriggled happily under his grip. Sansa’s mouth fell open and sweet little sighs escaped her, intensified as he continued to caress her other breast with his hand. Her fingers dug into the furs and he lifted his eyes to watch her face, taunted by the pleasure he found there, aching to fill her and bring her further into whatever bliss she currently found herself in. Sansa smiled down at him, her fingers slipping into his hair. “Kiss me,” she begged, eyes summoning him. He obliged her with force and Sandor felt trembling fingertips trail slowly down his stomach, to the laces on his breeches.

Instantly, he grabbed her wrist. _Are you sure?_ She nodded and slipped her arm free of his grip, pulling the ties open. Sandor could barely think straight with all the possibilities parading through his head, but he had the good sense to pull away and remove the final barrier between them. When his breeches were tossed on the floor, he returned to his previous position and settled comfortably above her.

Again she blushed, biting her lower lip in apprehension and eagerness. Sandor watched her eyes as she stared at him. He didn’t move, curious to see how she would react now that there was nothing left between them, no cloth or word or judgment to hold them back. Her fingers glided down his stomach and gently curved over the exposed length of him, and every hair on his body shot straight. He huffed, appalled that Sansa would be so confident, but he didn’t stop her, didn’t dare. She stroked him once, twice, and he reached a free hand between her legs to feel out the warm wetness of her sex. Her breath hitched, undoubtedly nervous, but she did not refuse him as he pressed his fingers against her.

 _Fuck, she’s wet._ The slick sensation made his whole body throb with wild hunger, knowing she was wet for _him._ He watched her face as he rubbed the pads of his fingers along the little ball of nerves above her entrance. Sansa cringed, clenching her eyes shut. “I— _ah,_ ” she moaned, gripping harder onto his shaft, grappling with the right words to say. He thrust into her hand a few times before laughing, pressing several slow kisses to her ear.

“I didn’t come here to fuck your fist,” he told her.

“No,” she replied breathlessly. “You came for a cup of wine, did you not?”

“The sweetest fucking wine I’ve ever tasted.” He felt her hands slip away from him and wrap around his shoulders, and he kissed her so eagerly he thought he might combust. _Slowly, slowly._ His skin was on fire and only Sansa could douse the flame, but he pulled away from her mouth to plant kisses on her ear. “Talk to me,” he urged. “Tell me this is okay.”

“Mmm. H-Haven’t I already?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Sandor felt stupid for stopping to talk, a complete fool to deny what his blood cried for, but he lifted his head to meet her gaze. “Don’t you women usually want this to be special? Different?”

“It _is_ special,” she insisted. “Because I’m with you.”

 _Oh, Sansa._ If anything could have tamed him, it was her sweet words. Lust slipped away and fell rotten through the floor, replaced by something grander, something purer. He’d heard of it in songs and tales long ago and spent his life denying its existence, but there it was, staring him in the face through eyes of aquamarine. Sansa brushed away the hair from his forehead and kissed him tenderly. There would be no more waiting. Sandor gripped himself at the base as a guide. He teased her opening with his tip, the shock of her wetness shooting down his spine and raking through every nerve. Sansa chuckled breathlessly and pulled him into a burning kiss, and Sandor took the moment for what it was. He pressed himself slowly into her, groaning as he did so.

Sansa drew in a sharp breath of pain. He was quick to respond. “Did I hurt you?”

“Not intentionally,” she replied. “Just—it’s alright, I promise. Please, don’t stop.”

“Sansa—“

“Please.” Her eyes were glazed over with blazing desire, pink lips brushing against his. “Sandor, _please_ …”

 _Fuck._ He couldn’t refuse her, didn’t want to, never could. Sandor aligned himself properly once again and reentered her, pushing slowly for her sake. He hated watching the pain on her face and could only imagine what it must feel like, her muscles contracting and tearing to make room for him, breaking her precious virtue. Sandor shoved his own pleasure aside until she gave him signs of enjoyment, something, anything. His rhythm was nearly nonexistent and he waited for her to adjust, kissing her cheeks and lips in attempt to ease her. Nearly a minute of steady movement passed before she gave him a nod, her expression no longer contorted in pain. He took her encouragement to heart and slowly, surely, buried himself deep.

The sound that came from her lips was not one of discomfort, but sheer nerve-shaking pleasure. Needles prickled at the back of his neck when he heard her joyous sounds, and he repeated the motion to warrant the same irresistible reply. The friction of their joining swallowed Sandor in a whole different world, one where there were no scars or headless knights or bastard kings and nobles. This was a place prepared only for them, and he would give her all of it.

His rhythm gradually sped. Sansa’s reactions became more drastic but his attention to them was fading, wholly succumbed to the temple of her body. The slick heat of her sex surrounded him and her muscles hugged every inch, so tight he could barely hold on, searching for the bridge between fucking and making love. He felt her grip on his shoulders tighten and her voice grow louder, and he was fully inebriated on ecstasy. He pumped into her warm flesh and she writhed in pleasure beneath him, the pit of his stomach rising to a scalding boil. He gripped her hip with one hand and angled himself in a way that would ignite her deepest point, and she gasped, clinging to him.

 _“Sandor,”_ she breathed, voice trembling with all she couldn’t say. He groaned into her mouth and captured her for a kiss, speeding to a point where Sansa could barely stand it. Each push gave a reply of overwhelming pleasure for them both. The crackle of the fire was replaced with sighs and moans from queen and protector, merging into one flesh, one soul. Her breathing patterns became erratic and Sandor knew she was close to the top, so close to incinerating and achieving what she had never known before. Force and speed increased with the slap of skin, encouraging her to that point of no return. “Come on,” he ordered, lips brushing her ear. “Sing for me.” Sansa clung to him, her voice high and uncontained, muscles tensing, teetering on the brink of the world, and with a deep chuckle in her ear Sandor pushed her over the edge.

The song she sang for him then was sweeter than any other. She cried out in her ecstasy and gripped tightly to him as if he would keep her from slipping away. The adrenaline of her pleasure spurred him onward, and the sensation of her muscles contracting around him drove a hot knife of desire in the pit of his stomach. Vocal, heaving sighs dragged on and her nails marked home on his back. He did not stop. When Sansa came down from the high he smiled against her lips and kissed her, and she pulled him into her neck, where he breathed her in and knew she was his. “Fuck, _Sansa._ ” The sanctity of her flesh tugged him under and he was helpless, branded and burned with her name. Moments later, Sandor spilled himself within her and groaned in his release, nails of ice and fire raking along his nerves, imploding. He huffed and struggled to catch his breath, placing kisses along her neck and pulling her deep into his hold as he hovered above her, breathless, body trembling from the power of their union.

Passion faded softly. They lay panting in each other’s arms a moment, smoldering and happy. She hummed and nuzzled against the side of his face and he kissed her, lazy and sweet, keeping a slow rhythm though the task was done. He felt her hands on either side of his face. Sandor looked down at her in admiration, thinking of nothing else but Sansa until whispered words pushed him away.

“I love you.”

His jaw tightened, grimacing. “No you don’t.”

“Yes I do.” Sansa smiled with such levels of joy that he couldn’t discern if it was real. Why would it be? Was this all some sort of trick, some lie? “I do, Sandor, I do. I love you.”

“Don’t…”

“Shh, hush.” She slid her fingers in his hair and pulled him closer, and one at a time, Sansa’s sweet kisses graced the uneven ridges of his monstrous face. She kissed his disfigured cheek and jaw, an ear that no longer existed and a scalp burned free of hair. She kissed his forehead and his eyes and every inch of scar inbetween. He worried she would taste his tears as he wept, and she must have, for she kissed them too.

“I love you,” she whispered a final time. Sandor was undone. _I believe you,_ he wanted to say, but the words would not come, choked off by emotion. Sandor knew she would save him. He’d known it for years, but when finally faced with love after so many decades of torment he could only cry, burying his face in the slope of her neck. Time halted for the both of them until tears were no more, and they fell asleep entangled in each other’s arms with words of “I love you” resting on their lips.

If loving her was fire, he would walk through hell to taste Sansa’s sweet mercy until the Stranger knocked at his door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R.I.P. EVERYONE WHO READ THIS BYE  
> This chapter has me so nervous because this is the first smut I've ever published for fanfiction??? Like damn, how. How did I wait this long. I am an adult. Where are my priorities.  
> WELL. Only one chapter left now that all the goods are out of the way. I hope you all enjoyed this. I wrestled with this chapter for a long time because I wasn't convinced it was hot enough or "acceptable" for the fandom, you know? But they're basically taking each other's virginities so whatever. It can't get much hotter than this when Sandor is losing his emotional cherry and Sansa is losing her physical one. -shrug- I DID GOOD, OKAY? (maybe?)  
> One more chapter, guys! Coming on Tuesday! This story has such a fitting ending and I know you're going to love it. Your continued comments and support mean the world. Have fun reading this chapter 206 more times today, make sure to keep an extra pair of batteries in your nightstand! (omg i should not have said that who AM I)


	8. When the Stranger Knocks

  


  


No one in Westeros could have predicted such a brutal winter. Strangled by famine and blizzards, the Seven Kingdoms suffered an icy plague that lingered for eight long years. Jon and Daenerys did what they could to salvage the mess that the Lannisters left behind, but casualties were many and King’s Landing felt it hardest. Even the wealth of Tyrell fields could not stop the devastation. From Dorne to the Riverlands, the southern country felt the consequences of the lions’ terrible leadership. Sansa assisted where she could, providing carriages of supplement and instructions for winter survival, but communication was difficult and the North suffered many of its own hardships. Rhaegal had occasionally flown North during winter and took up residence in the Wolfswood, and Sansa swore she had seen Drogon once or twice. But magnificent as dragons were, it was Ghost she missed most of all. When spring arrived at last, Sansa was determined to visit Jon with gifts and comfort and familial love. Both monarchs had a trying summer season ahead of them and neither was prepared to fail. She missed her brother terribly, and as odd as it was, the thought of seeing King’s Landing again was quite refreshing. It would no longer be the house of horrors she remembered. The lions were chased out, and dragons and direwolves rebuilt from the rubble. No ill will would befall her in her brother’s home, and a younger part of Sansa still yearned for the southern sun.

King Jon and Queen Daenerys were loved ceaselessly by the people and attended to the needs of all, rich and poor, high and low. The Meereenese and Dothraki that the queen brought from Essos merged their cultures into that of western life. A new city in Dorne, called Mhysar, had been erected to honor the Harpy and many of the people of Old Ghis flocked there. Jon and Daenerys were the king and queen of many different traditions in one, and honored each participating way of life individually. The two found love over the years. Twin children were the fruit of their marriage, Prince Eddard and Princess Rhaella, though it was said that the queen fell very ill during her pregnancy and has been unable to bear children since. Sansa and her sister by law frequently exchanged letters and she was honored to call her a friend. Her heart ached to see them both again.

The wheelhouse was Sansa’s great comfort. Travel on horseback was impossible in her condition, and while this method made for a slower journey it would keep her health at the primary focus. It was comfortable enough, built specifically for the royal family. She could even get up and walk around so long as she was careful. The spring sun shone on her face through open picket windows, and she sighed blissfully in the warm breeze. The little piece of Catelyn Tully in her soul smiled to return to her homeland.

“Mother,” came a voice from her left. “Mother, look! Is that the Red Fork?”

She lifted her head to see where the prince was pointing. Sparkling river waters reflected the glow of a late afternoon sun. “No, no. That’s the Trident.” Sansa rubbed her little son’s back and pointed out to the water. “What do you know about the Trident, Robb?”

“That’s where Prince Rhaegar died! Robert Baratheon crushed him with a really big hammer.”

“Very good! But I wouldn’t say the last bit in front of your royal aunt.” She planted a loving kiss on his cheek. “Where is the Trident, do you know?”

He paused a moment. “Oh! The Riverlands! Where Uncle Edmure and Aunt Roslin live! Grandmother was born here too. Are we getting close to King’s Landing?”

“Soon, my love.” Sansa curled ginger hair behind his ear. “You look very handsome today.”

“Thank you. This is what I want to wear when I meet the princess. Is it good?” Six-year-old Robb Stark, the spitting image of his namesake save for a pair of grey eyes, stood away from his mother and held out his arms for examination. He had dressed himself as he always did, in a kingly white tunic with the Stark direwolf stitched intricately in silver and gold along the side. His breeches were a simple black. “I have to look handsome. Lady Lyanna told me that.”

“You’re always handsome, and your clothes are wonderful.” Sansa struggled to lean over, but she managed to pull her son close and place a kiss on his head. “Princess Rhaella will swoon over you, I’m sure of it.”

“What’s swooning? Will she be sick?”

“No, no. It’s like fainting.” Sansa giggled. “You needn’t worry about making girls swoon. You have a long time left before I must give you away.”

“Don’t worry, Mother. I’m right here!”

“Yes, little one. You are.” She kissed his head again, and he nestled into her hold.

“Stop!” roared a voice in the distance. “I said stop, you buggering cunt. We’re here.”

Sansa huffed angrily as the wheelhouse came to a halt. Robb seemed to sense her agitation and he looked up at her with bright silver eyes. “Father is saying bad words again.”

“I know.” Sansa had scolded Sandor initially, but as the years passed without change she saw no point in further discussion. The door to the wheelhouse flew open and a familiar brunette poked her head in. Her short hair was wild from riding. “Sansa, come out here and control your stupid husband.”

“What is he doing now?”

“He says we’re here, but this is the middle of _nowhere._ I think he’s trying to kill me.”

“If I wanted to kill you I would have done it by now,” Sandor called from outside. “It’d be _easy,_ like snapping a twig.”

“Would not!”

“Shh,” Sansa said. “Arya, please. You’re hurting my ears. Hold on. Help me up.” Sansa reached for the younger woman, who sighed and hopped into the wheelhouse. She took the queen by the hands and slowly helped her stand on her feet. Robb dashed quickly from the carriage, eager to give his opinion to his older sister. “I bet Father is right!”

“No _way,_ ” little Elinor Stark replied. “Aunt Arya is right. Ladies are always better at directions.”

“I wish they would stop arguing,” Sansa said. “They sound like us.”

“Maybe. But I’m always right. Even Elinor agrees.” Arya chuckled and wrapped an arm around Sansa’s waist, assisting her from the confines of the wheelhouse. The knights in their company bowed before queen and princess, and Sansa stretched out her arms with a happy little squeal when she was freed from the wooden prison at last. “Ooo,” she complained as her child rolled about. She kept a hand on her low back and the other on her protruding belly, where the fifth heir to Winterfell squirmed restlessly within.

“Did it move?” Arya asked.

“Yes, again. This one certainly likes to wiggle around.” Sansa placed a hand on her sister’s shoulder to steady herself, but as soon as Arya was assured of her safety she continued to argue.

“Your stupid arse of a husband says we’re nearby.”

“Your dumb bitch of a sister says we’re far. She’s full of it.” Sandor folded his arms across his broad chest as he approached the siblings. “She’s never even been to this place.”

“Yeah, because I left you behind and went somewhere better.”

“With _my_ silver.”

“I already told you, I paid for the ship with a Braavosi coin I got from—“

 _“Enough!”_ Sansa shouted. All fell silent, even the bickering children to her. “Gods be good, I’ll have none of this. How are you two still arguing about this nearly a decade later? Sandor, do our children really need to be hearing their father’s profanity? And Arya, can you _for once_ stop arguing and trust him? I wouldn’t marry a liar.” Elinor and Robb hid behind their father’s legs, and Arya huffed in frustration. From somewhere behind her, Sansa heard Brienne start to chuckle.

“Sorry Sansa,” Arya said.

“It’s alright. You should start setting up camp for the night, it’ll give you and the others something to do.”

“I’ll do it. And I’ll do a better job of it than _he_ did last time.” Arya jabbed a glare at her brother-in-law before trudging off, rounding up some knights to help.

Sansa pushed out an exhausted sigh, rubbing her stomach and reaching out for her husband. “Why do you always have to antagonize her? It’s not as funny as you think it is.”

“You’re right. It’s _hilarious._ ” Sandor gave a low chuckle, taking her hands in his. “Does your back hurt?”

“A bit. It’s better now that I’m out of that wheelhouse. How did Elinor like riding Stranger?”

“She was a bit nervous at first. Almost cried. He doesn’t like people, you know that, but they got used to each other soon enough.”

“Really? She loves riding. I’m surprised she was scared.”

“I’m not. Stranger’s one frightening fucker.” Sandor slipped his arm around Sansa’s back and pulled her close to him. “Just like his master.”

“Oh really?” she giggled. “Yes, I agree. So terribly frightening.” 

He smiled, one of those rare, sweet moments where he seemed confident enough to display their affection publicly. Sansa tapped a finger against her lips, their secret sign for a kiss, and he leaned down past their height difference to indulge her. His lips were hot and sweet and Sansa smiled into his mouth, placing her hands on either side of his face. He refused to stop. His held on to her hip and her swollen belly, and with a hum of surprise Sandor’s tongue slipped between her teeth.

“Ewww!” Robb shouted in disgust. Elinor stuck out her tongue. “Father, you’re gross!”

Sansa laughed against her lover’s kiss, lightly pushing him away. “Stop, Sandor. Don’t give our children a show.”

Sandor grinned devilishly and gave her a final peck on the cheek. He turned to the little ones and crouched before them, clearing his throat to give instruction. “Go with Brienne, both of you, and help your aunt get things ready. This is a good place to camp. Your mother and I will be back in the morning.”

“Have fun!” Robb giggled. Elinor bit her lip.

“Where are you going?”

“A place called the Quiet Isles,” Sandor replied. “To visit an old friend.”

“Daddy, you’re a liar. The Quiet Isles sounds like a place where you and Mother are going to snog some more.”

“What else would we want to do? Snogging your mother is the best thing there is.”

“Blegh!” Robb exclaimed. “Brienne! Help, help!” He darted off toward the blonde knight a few meters away, waving his arms and screaming. Elinor did the same, but not before she kissed her father’s scarred cheek and gave him a hug. “Mother, don’t let him kiss you too much. He has to be gentle with the baby in there.”

Sansa couldn’t help but laugh. “Don’t worry, my love. We’ll be alright.” Sandor kissed Elinor’s forehead and sent her running off, standing straight once she was safe with Brienne. Sansa waved goodbye to her children as leaning over to embrace them was no longer an option, and she blew them little kisses across the distance.

“Stay here with my family,” Sansa told her Queensguard. “We’ll be back before dawn. There’s no harm to be had on an island full of monks. Sandor will keep me safe.”

“Yes, Your Grace. Have a safe journey.” The group bowed and took their leave, and queen and husband were soon left alone with Stranger at their side.

“I think she loves you more than me,” Sansa laughed, watching Elinor wave at the two of them from a distance.

“That’s only because I don’t scold her when she says ‘fuck’.”

“Which you _should._ ” Sansa slapped him playfully on the arm. “That’s not the kind of language a future queen should have, or an eight-year-old nonetheless.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“Definitely not.” She slipped her arm in his. “Walk with me, Lord Consort. I feel the need to stretch my legs, and I want to see this ‘Path of Faith’ for myself.”

“It’s not anything grand,” he replied as they turned, walking onward through waves of grass. Sandor clicked his tongue and Stranger obediently followed. “Full of mud and quicksand and water. You’ll get your nice dress all dirty.”

“Oh, please. You’ve never cared about my nice dresses.” Sansa chuckled and looked up at him, a sparkle in her eye. “You’ve been quite keen to rip them off.”

“Have I?” He scratched his chin in thought. “Don’t remember. Must be getting old.”

“How convenient for you.”

Sandor laughed, a sound Sansa cherished above all others. She stopped and tapped her lips again, and he kissed her harder than the last time, never able to keep away from her for long. Sandor gripped onto her hips and sighed against her mouth, chuckling in a way that drove her mad. “Why isn’t the baby here yet? I want to fuck you without this giant barrier in the way.”

“Giant! You put it there!” Sansa kissed him again before wrapping her arms around his neck. “You can’t complain. You’re hooked on our screaming children, don’t lie.”

Sandor grinned, curling her hair behind her ear. “Maybe just a bit.” He offered his arm to her and she took it again, and they continued their slow pace.

“Will we have more after this one?”

Sandor snorted. “Every time you push one out, you want another two weeks later. I’ll be drowning in wolf pups before winter comes again.”

“That sounds like a terrible fate.” Sansa knew he could not complain. He didn’t care how many children she wanted, as long as she remained alive so they could nurture them together. He’d told her as much after Elinor was born. “Once Winterfell only had me. Soon they’ll have an army.”

“A big fucking army,” Sandor laughed.

“Mhm. Anyway, where is this place? You said we’re close. The sooner we get on this ‘Path of Faith,’ the better.”

“It’s around here somewhere. I can’t wait to see the look on that pious bastard’s face when I show up again after all these years.” Sandor paused and glanced between two weeping willows. “Here. Take my hand.” Sansa obliged, slipping her hand in his as he took Stranger’s reins with the other. “Remember what I said. This path is a pain in the arse.”

“Is this it?”

“Think so. Come on.”

It didn’t take long to discover the trail, but passage along the Path of Faith was more dangerous than Sansa anticipated. When he explained the tide and a constant need for assistance, Sansa assumed he was simply overestimating the severity or remembering it wrong. She struggled through the first quarter mile until her back could handle no more, and her massive husband scooped her up in his arms like a bride to carry her the rest of the way. “Stop whining about it,” he laughed at her protests. “Even pregnant, you’re still lighter than air. I can handle a bloody backache better than you can, bum leg or not. Let me.” Sandor stopped on occasion to poke the ground ahead with his foot and Stranger huffed in annoyance, but the correct path was always revealed and their journey recommenced. They passed the time by chatting about names for the upcoming child and wondering what King’s Landing would look like now that Targaryens ruled again. _I wonder if the throne room will look the same,_ Sansa thought, resting against Sandor’s chest and closing her eyes. She heard that Ghost sat beside the Iron Throne and moved for no one but Jon or Daenerys. But he would move for her. _Ghost was always so excited to see me. I can’t wait to see them all again, once this is done._

Dusk settled by the time they reached the Quiet Isles. Sandor placed Sansa gently on her feet and she looped her arm in his, walking along the dirt path etched into blades of grass. Little poppy flowers poked up from the ground and tall, peaceful willows dotted the island’s surface. Rolling river waves crashed on jutted rock and not a single voice was heard, except for those of twittering birds. The silence was peaceful, if almost eerie. “It’s so serene,” Sansa commented, letting her lungs fill to the brim with brisk island air. “I can see the appeal, even if it means giving up your voice.”

“Not talking was the best part about it,” Sandor replied. “Believe me, it was nice not to have people yapping at you all the time.”

“Might be even nicer now that you’re married,” she teased. 

“You have no idea.”

Sandor led her to the stables, where he boarded Stranger before continuing. The hill at the center seemed to mark his destination. Two robed monks were building something ahead of them, the Star of the Seven dangling around their necks. _A crate? No. A coffin._ Sandor cleared his throat when they approached. “The Elder Brother,” he stated. “We’re here to see him. Tell him he has visitors.”

The monks glanced woefully to one another. Sansa’s smile fell.

“Did you hear me?” Sandor said again. “Go tell him. Or show me where he is, I can find him myself.”

“Sandor,” Sansa whispered, but he didn’t seem to hear her. The monks gestured slowly to the top of the hill, where a single lantern flickered in the night. Sandor squeezed her hand and led her up the steps, his entire aura deflated and anxious. Dread filled Sansa’s stomach when his hand pressed against the wooden door. He flashed her a nervous glance. Her fingers laced in his and he drew a deep breath, releasing.

Sandor pushed opened the door. The room was dimly lit by candles and thick with smoke from burning ephedra. An elderly man lay alone, bedridden and breathing with a familiar deathly rattle. Upon hearing another presence in the room he opened his lids lazily to observe. “By the Seven,” he rasped. “Is that…?”

“The fuck happened to you?”

“Ah. It _is_ you. I’d know that foul mouth anywhere.” The Elder Brother began to laugh, but it threw him into violent coughs that seemed to stab his lungs like daggers. Sansa felt her husband flinch. “Oh, goodness…what a blessing it is to see you again. Forgive me, both of you. You are my guests, but old age has come for me at last. The Stranger, he knocks on my door. Quite literally now, so it seems.”

Sandor didn’t reply. He swallowed hard and gestured for Sansa to take the chair at the monk’s side, which she grimly did.

“The Stranger travels with the Mother apparently,” the old man chuckled. “You must be Sansa Stark. Oh, Sandor, I knew you would succeed. Yes, yes. Let me look at you.” The Elder Brother pushed himself weakly up into a sitting position, politely declining Sansa’s offer for help. He gestured for her to scoot forward, and he placed his hands upon her cheeks when she was close enough. His palms were cold and clammy, slick with the sweat of fighting for one’s life, but she did not flinch away. She had felt worse things in her life. “There are rivers in your eyes,” he told her. “I see them. Determined, always finding new paths. It is little wonder that Sandor fell in love with what kills fire. Tales of your beauty do no justice.”

“You are very kind,” she said, her voice small and distant.

“Oh, think nothing of it. I can’t lie. I’m a monk.” He smiled and patted her cheeks lightly, releasing her. “You look nothing like a Stark at all, my dear. House Tully is strong in you.”

“My mother’s gift,” Sansa explained.

“A mother’s gift for a mother.” He gestured to her swollen belly. “When is the child due?”

“Two months, so the maesters say.”

“Wonderful! Oh, Sandor, and you thought the gods had abandoned you. The gift of life…this is proof that you were wrong.”

Sansa glanced to her husband, frowning. She understood the grief in his eyes. Sansa took his hand in hers and it distracted him enough to look at her sorrowfully. “Sit with me,” she told him. “Come into this conversation. It may be his last.” She kissed his knuckles and brushed them with her thumbs, and the gesture was enough to calm him. Sandor left her touch to pull up a chair, taking a seat at his wife’s side. He wrapped a strong arm around her waist. She knew that he needed her. _I’m here._

Sandor drew in a breath and released, looking up to the Elder Brother. “You look like shit.”

“Yes. I’m afraid dying has that effect.” The monk smiled despite it all. “I am thrilled to see you, even if I don’t look it. No energy.”

“Why didn’t you send for me? You knew where I was. You could have told me you were dying.”

“I didn’t want you here,” the old man replied. “I know you, Sandor, or at least I thought I did. This was a place of refuge for you. You would come and go as so many others have. My duty to you had been completed, yet you had the heart to come back. I admit, it warms me to know that you care as I do. From one friend to another.”

Sandor clenched his jaw and said nothing.

“Ah. But enough about me, tell me about you. I want to know everything. I’d heard that Sandor Clegane became the King Consort of the North?”

“ _Lord_ Consort,” Sansa corrected. “He nearly killed the first man who called him king.”

“Hah! At least there’s no _ser,_ right?” The Elder Brother chuckled. Sandor did not. “Why a Consort and not the King in the North?”

“I didn’t want anyone to use me for my brother’s crown, so I decreed that only a Stark can be the sole monarch of the Free North. I adopted the Dornish custom of including women in the line of succession, too. It was difficult for the people to accept at first, but over time they saw the benefit.”

“Smart. Very smart. The time of male-dominated lines is over, I should think. Men never did much good in this world. Women, however, women are strong. They bring life to the world though it is agony to do so. You’ve seen it, Sandor, haven’t you?” He grinned. “How many children do you have?”

He took a moment to respond. “Four,” Sandor replied gruffly. “Five, soon.”

“And their names?”

“Elinor, Robb, Edric and Torrhen.”

“We can’t seem to decide on another name,” Sansa explained. “Elinor is eight, Robb is six, Edric is four and Torrhen is two. We left our two youngest at Winterfell with my brother Rickon.”

The monk beamed. “Ah. A nice big family. You should be proud, Sandor. You’ve sired a new generation of Starks that the legends will speak of for centuries to come. Great Queen Sansa and her loyal King Consort. Or, _Lord_ Consort. I wish I could hear the songs they’ll sing about you in the future.” The Elder Brother began to laugh but it was agony yet again. He coughed so hard he could barely breathe, and Sansa reached forward to rub his back in small, soothing circles, horrified that he might choke to death. When the storm passed his breathing was labored and his voice, decrepit. “Th—Thank you, my dear. You…are truly blessed with the Mother’s grace.” He lay back down and took a few deep breaths just to ensure that he could. “I’m dying.”

Sandor grimaced. “Soon?”

“Tonight, if the gods are good. I’ve lived long enough. I have been cursed only to end up blessed. A fitting end for me as it will be for you, my friend, many many decades from now.” He reached for Sandor’s hand, his eyes rank with desperation. “P-Please. Do me a final favor, won’t you?”

Sandor looked to him and waited.

“Bury me,” the Elder Brother asked. “Dig my grave and lay me to rest when the time comes. I would ask no one else.”

He seemed wounded by the request, grey eyes laced with torment. “Soon, you say?”

“Yes. Very.”

Sandor nodded and squeezed the monk’s fragile hand. Sansa bit her lip. _It’s alright. You can do this._ He paused in reverence before instantly recoiling, rising to his feet and storming from the room. “Get me a fucking spade,” she heard him bark to the nearest man, “and be bloody quick about it.” Sansa drew in a breath and folded her hands in her lap. _Please, Sandor. Please be calm._

“He hasn’t changed much,” the Elder Brother said, “yet at the same time I hardly recognized him when he came through that door. You tamed him. You saved him.”

Sansa took in a deep breath and returned her gaze to the dying man. “I fear for him.”

“Don’t all wives fear for their husbands? Sandor is the strongest man I’ve ever known. You need not worry.” The monk reached for her, trembling. “Do you happen to know any songs, my dear? Forgive me…it’s been so long since I’ve heard a woman sing. I would like to hear it one last time.”

Sansa felt tears sting the back of her eyes. She cupped his palm in both of hers. “Yes,” she replied, “I know many songs. I sing to my children every night.”

“As any mother should. What do you sing?”

“The Mother’s Hymn.” Sansa smiled. “That song has great meaning for us.”

“Ah, yes. Sandor told me that when I met him. He is sharp as Valyrian steel on the outside, but within he is nothing but devotion. Pure devotion, my dear, for you and your family. When…when I meet with the gods I will beg them to bless you with nothing but happiness for the rest of your days. If anyone deserves such a gift, it is the both of you.”

“Thank you,” Sansa said weakly, a tear rolling down her cheek.

“You are most welcome. Now, might I have that song…?” His voice was as shallow as the grave. “My time is near, I…I can feel the Stranger’s gaze upon me.”

“Of course.” Sansa smoothed white hair from his forehead and squeezed his hand, and softly she began to sing. The hymn came as naturally as breathing and she did not look away, trying to keep steady and strong for his sake. The Elder Brother was the first true friend Sandor ever had. He’d told her as much. They came to the Quiet Isles expecting a pleasant reunion, only to be faced with the finality of death. _But he is kind, so kind to see us anyway when his dying breaths are upon him._ Sansa sniffled when the song was finished and smiled graciously down to him.

“Beautiful,” he rasped. “Just beautiful. You are…yes, you have been blessed by the Mother…”

Sansa kissed his hand, not knowing what else to do. “Sh-Should I call for someone?”

“No,” he replied. “Best not. I would look upon the face of the Stranger alone.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes…yes, of course. Your little girl doesn’t need to see this, not even from the womb.” He placed a hand atop her belly. The child began to move. “You should name her Catherine. Like your mother Catelyn, but softer sounding. More like this beautiful spring she’ll be born into.”

Her smile reflected in his eyes. She was not surprised that a man of faith could discern the child’s gender. If anything, she felt blessed. “Catherine Stark. I love it, I will. Thank you for everything you’ve done for us, Elder Brother.”

“It was the work of the gods, my dear, not me.” He patted her hand for comfort. “Go on, now. Be with him, and think of me no more.”

“We will think of you always.” Sansa leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehead. She left him to his peace shortly after, closing the door and refusing to look back. 

Midnight air turned her skin to gooseflesh, or perhaps it was Death’s presence, there was no way to tell. Sansa carefully descended the steps and sat down on a great boulder near where Sandor plunged his spade into the earth, and she watched him silently. He never spoke while digging for the dead. “It’s how we respect them,” he’d told her when she asked years ago. “On the Quiet Isles nobody talks, but the Elder Brother says a Gravedigger should speak least of all. Every push into the soil starts laying a soul to rest. Something like that.” Sandor paused from his grueling task to meet Sansa’s eyes, as if he knew she was thinking of him. _I’m right here,_ she said without words. _I’m always right here._ Sandor trudged from the pit and removed his wool cloak, balling it up and placing it behind her back like a pillow. He rubbed her arm and kissed her temple before returning to work, speechless.

The sept bells chimed shortly after. Sansa didn’t realize how much time had passed. Sandor climbed out of the grave he’d dug and wiped the sweat from his forehead, tossing the shovel to the dirt. He looked at Sansa and she looked at him. A sorrowful smile crossed her lips and she stood, arms open. “Come here.”

Like a child, he obeyed.

Sandor pulled her deep into his chest and she felt his face in her hair, and she didn’t give a single thought to how filthy with work he was, only to the despair in his heart. They held each other close in memoriam. Atop the hill, seven monks carried the wrapped body of the Elder Brother carefully down stone steps, placing him in the coffin built for his great respect. Queen and Consort stayed present for the entire ceremony, singing hymns with the others and offering words of harrowed farewell. Sansa remained wrapped in her husband’s grasp, rubbing his back for comfort she knew he needed.

The moon was high when the funeral ended. Sandor pulled away from her to lower the old man into the ground, and set about burying him when all else was done.

The monks retired to bed after pointing out Sansa’s chambers for the night. A single lantern was left behind, flickering an orange glow on jet black stone. The Gravedigger did not say a word. Sansa sat down and watched him bury his friend, his savior, his healer. She tried to reach through to his soul but Sandor would not spare her so much as a glance, so the breeze became her company, with the innocent child lying still within her. Sansa leaned back against the comfort of his cloak and waited for him, patient and present, both hands resting on the swell of her stomach. _You’ll be alright,_ she wanted to tell him. _I’m here. I’m always here._ Death did not affect her the way it did him.

After a time, Sandor patted down the dirt and shoved the spade in the ground beside him. Frigid winds whipped through his hair and his expression was crestfallen, livid. _You are broken,_ Sansa thought, _not angry. Don’t try to fool me._

“You should get to bed,” he told her harshly. “Your back, the baby. You need rest.”

“I’m staying here with you.” Sansa crossed the distance between them, placing her hand gently on his arm. “I’m always staying here with you.”

Sandor’s mouth twitched in a frown. River waves and rustling leaves were all to be heard for a time, the whispers of the gods, until he decided to speak over them. “Promise me something.” He turned to her with a tormented stare, holding her tightly by the arms.

“Anything.”

“Promise me you won’t die before I do.” His voice trembled and cracked like a child’s, and it broke her. “I’m not going to dig your _fucking_ grave, you hear me? This is the last one. I won’t dig one for you or Elinor, Robb, Edric or Torrhen, or this baby, or any other children we have. I won’t do it. Anyone who tells me I should can _fuck_ themselves, I _refuse._ ” Tears flooded down his cheeks. “Do you hear me, Sansa? I won’t do it. I _**can’t.**_ ”

“Oh, Sandor...” Sansa placed her hands on either side of his sweet face, both healed and scarred, equally as precious to her, and she wept with him. There would be no need for burial when Death came for her. Sansa belonged in the crypts beside Robb and her father, and their children would too someday, but she would not correct him. Sandor was telling her that he would not allow them to die before he did. In her heart, she knew it was true.

“Promise me.” His grip on her tightened. “I need to hear it, Sansa. Please, I beg you.”

“I promise,” she wept. “I promise, Sandor. Okay? I do, always.” Sansa kissed him desperately and wrapped her arms around his neck. He tucked her deep in the steel of his chest and held her secure. Sandor’s kiss was protective and possessive, bruising, as if he thought that the more he loved her the longer he could keep her from death. His fingers tangled in her hair, and as he claimed her where his journey began, Sansa knew she could keep her vow. The gods whispered holy acknowledgment and their words flooded around them, threading through hair of obsidian and dark fire.

“I promise,” she breathed when their mouths broke, their foreheads resting together. She brushed his lips with hers and captured him in her heart, where he was content to stay for eternity. Sansa kissed him again and his tongue slipped between her teeth, and their mouths made promises that words could not.

_You will never be a Gravedigger again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws confetti* Wow, yay! I wrote a thing! I don't even know what to say. I'm so incredibly proud of this accomplishment, I think I did very well and your constant support has been overwhelmingly helpful in the best ways possible. I appreciate every single one of you. Believe that.  
> You can follow me [here](http://kitharington.tumblr.com) on tumblr and message me [here](http://kitharington.tumblr.com/holla) for questions about the fic, or if you just want to talk to me in general! If you want to draw fanart for this work, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE contact me so I can look at it! I'll ALWAYS reblog/like anything like that, and I'll scream like a baby to know that someone took the time to show me how much my work inspired theirs. I don't think my reasons for living get any better than that. If you take a moment to leave a review of this fic in the comments section below, I might put it on the fics page on my blog. Your feedback on this now-completed work is so important to me, even if you're reading this two years from the date it was published. I mean that, truly!  
> Also! **Saturday, May 30th, 2015, I will be releasing the first chapter of my next fic, "Come Morning Light."** It's a King's Landing-era Blackwater AU where Sandor does not leave and Robb keeps his promise to the Freys. Sansan goodness with other ships, too. Multiple character POVs, _lots_ of angst and drama, and of course, smut! It won't be a slow burn like this work was, but I'm _thrilled_ to start picking away at it. I hope you join me for another story.  
>  That's all I have to say, I think! Thank you so much for sticking with me on this ride, and I'll see you next Saturday my dears, with a brand new fic for your enjoyment~!  
> *smooches you all* *puts on sunglasses* *drives away with the sunroof open* hell yeah we did it  
> EDIT: ALSO GO LOVE [MY SISTER](http://subvertcliche.tumblr.com) WHO BETA'D THIS WORK I CAN'T BELIEVE I FORGOT IM tRASH


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